


The Poison And The Antidote

by intheforest-hides-a-light (stinatinde)



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst and Drama, Bliss (Far Cry), Drama, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love/Hate, Murder, Physical Abuse, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Pre-Far Cry 5, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-04-07 15:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19087567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stinatinde/pseuds/intheforest-hides-a-light
Summary: Seventeen year-old Rachel Jessop's life changes forever the day she meets Joseph Seed, and the seven years that follow aren't at all how she expected them to be.She ran away from her old demons and straight into the arms of new ones.You see, it's not easy to leave once feelings are involved.It's also not easy to stay.





	1. Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my take on Faith (Rachel Jessop)'s story as seen from her eyes (FAITH'S POV). Who she is, how she ended up joining Eden's Gate, and why she stayed. Throughout this I've strung several details that form my idea of the role that the Faiths play in the Project, and what makes Rachel different. This will also go into (and primarily focus on) her complicated relationship with Joseph as the story progresses. I hope you enjoy.

I count the bruises on my arms and legs as I cry alone in my bedroom. Three on the right leg, two on the left. Four on the right arm, five on the left. I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror today but I am sure that my left eye is completely black and blue. There are fingernail scratches along my collarbones. Are they from my dad or from my brother? I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. I run my fingers through my hair. Masses of strands fall out in clumps. Is it from being dragged across the kitchen last night? Or is it from the incident in the girls’ locker room two days ago? I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember.

I turn my nightstand around, looking for a secret stash of weed I keep hidden in case of emergencies. I find the plastic bag, but it is practically empty. There have been a lot of emergencies in the last three weeks. My backpack is sitting by the door. I head over to it and search the inner secret pocket. Another ziplock bag, empty except for a white powdery residue. I go into the bathroom, open up the lower cabinet door, feel around the upper inside and pull out another bag hidden between the pipe and the wall. Syringes. Empty.

My phone chimes. It’s Tracey. I hesitate to pick up. Deep down all I want is to talk to someone. Tell someone that it happened again, that I am back at the beginning, that no matter how much courage I try to muster up I keep falling back to this same place, dirt low, forgotten. Beaten. The only way up is getting high. That’s the only escape I know.

Tracey doesn’t need drugs like I need drugs. Tracey doesn’t depend on a leafy plant, or a fine white powder or a needle to numb her pain. Tracey is much stronger than me.

I swallow hard and pick up my phone, “Hi, Tracey.”

“Hey girl, how you holding up?”

Just hearing her ask the question shatters me. I hold in my sob, but my voice comes out shaky and weak, “I’m...not...not great.”

“What’s going on?”

“It was bad yesterday. It was really bad.”

“Your dad? Your brother?”

My father is a pharmacist. Yet somehow, right after mom died, his years of education magically disappeared and he quit his job to start experimenting with homeopathic medicine. Since then things haven’t been so easy. He makes no money. We’re living in debt. He’s looking for a cure for my autistic brother. I try to tell him, because he won’t listen to his graduate degree, that it’s impossible, that David is going to stay that way forever and the only thing that is going to make it any easier on him is love and education. I tell him that and he beats me up. Whatever he cooks up in his lab only makes my brother angry, violent. I think it’s getting into my father’s head too. Sends him into these fits of rage. I go to bed hearing screaming matches between the two of them. I’m afraid that one morning I will wake up and--

I can’t think about it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t have anymore weed. I can’t break down like this because I don’t have a way up.

“Both.” I say.

“Those bitches from school?” She asks.

_Don't think about it, Rachel._

“Uh huh.”

“Oh gosh. I’m sorry girlfriend. Got that secret stash I gave you?” She’s referring to the pot. She doesn’t know about the other two vices.

“All out.”

I hear her sigh, “You know that’s for emergencies only, Rachel. Not for everyday use. You’re supposed to be getting off that stuff, you know? We’re trying to get you better.”

“I know,” I sniff, “I know Tracey. Lately it’s been so hard. I just wish there was a way out. I know I’m failing. I know you probably think I’m a failure but I am trying, I’m really trying.”

She chuckles, but I can tell that it is loving, “Hey. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you. OK? I know it isn’t easy. You’re not failing as long as you keep trying. Speaking of which...I think I found a place for us.”

We’ve been planning on running away together, mainly for my sake but also for hers. I need to get away from my dad. And she, well, Tracey’s got it good, but she’s always seeking more from life.

“How far is it?” I inquire.

“Not as far as we hoped, Rach,” she sighs, “Hope County”.

“Well that’s about as local as it gets,” I say with dismay, “What is it?”

“They call themselves Eden’s Gate. The Project at Eden’s Gate.”

“What are they? What do they do?”

“Well they’ve got a sermon tonight at the Ranch in Holland Valley. I’ll drive. Wanna come and find out?”

“I don’t think my dad will let me.”

“Who said you need his permission? Come on Rachel. We’ve snuck out your bedroom window plenty of times. It’ll be just like the old days.”

I look at my window. Nailed shut with wooden planks. Tracey doesn’t know about my father’s latest attempt to keep me in. My door is always locked. My father keeps the key. I can only go out for meals. Meals that aren’t even worth eating. I eat a scoop of peas for dinner and drink a glass of milk for breakfast. I do have my own bathroom, and my own bedroom, but no connection to the outside world other than my cell phone. Which is why those secret stashes meant so much to me.

“Well...I really think I ought to ask first, just in case,” I look down at my bruised legs,  “I can’t afford to get into any more trouble. What do they preach? Maybe I can convince my old man?”

There’s a pause on the other end “Just tell him they’re Christians. We are going to church.”

“Okay,” I pick at my nails, “I think he’ll be fine with that.”

* * *

Two hours later, blessed with permission from my unpredictable father, I am trying to cover up my black eye in the mirror. I don’t have a lot of makeup. My mother practically forbade it and my father continued the tradition. Otherwise he’s scared that I’ll get pregnant. But little does he know, back when Mom was alive, Tracey and I used to waitress at the 8-bit Pizza Bar while we were supposed to be selling girl scout cookies (sixteen is a little old for that anyway, in my opinion).  We’d pick up some good looking boys in there from time to time. It didn’t matter that I didn’t wear any makeup. Guess you could say I had that small town charm going for me, at the time. Or maybe it was the fact that I was an easy target. I didn’t have a backbone. I still don’t. The boys were genteel enough. Courteous. Charming. But the minute I got into one of their trucks their hands went straight for me. Not the steering wheel. My breasts. Not the stick shift. My thigh. As if they owned it. As if they won it over. As if it was theirs for the taking from the beginning.

I let them take it. I’ve forgotten how much I owe Tracey for all the morning after pills she brought me.

She kept forgiving me over and over again. She tried to teach me how to stand up for myself. She still does. But she also introduced me to drugs. I smoked pot with her but I found my way into other things in the bad parts of town. Coke. Heroin. I do them when I can do them, which is not very often. I can’t afford it and I can’t get out of the house enough anymore. I don’t think Tracey ever thought I’d become dependent on drugs. I know she only wanted to help me escape. But for me, weed opened up a forest of dangers. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I don’t have the self control that she does. Now she’s trying to wean me off of it. But she’s trying to cut off one head of the hydra. I need to smite all three if I want to get over this.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My complexion, once ruddy and bright, is now sickly, with tired eyes, bruises and scars all over. I look like a corpse next to the other girls in town who are full of spirit and life. I am a ghost. I float through the hallways like a ghost. I haunt my bedroom like a ghost.

I wasn’t always a ghost. I used to take care of myself. I’d lost about fifteen pounds since my mother died. My dad’s cooking is shit. Even though weed makes me hungry I never feel the desire to eat anything because nothing tastes good. My brown-blond hair (God couldn’t make up his mind when he made me, you see, at least that is what my mother would to say) used to be shiny with a slight wave to it, now it’s matte, dull, falling out in clumps and frayed awfully at the ends. I want to die. I feel like if I am a ghost I might as well be dead. I think I started doing heavier drugs because of that. Because I want to die, but I am too much of a coward just to kill myself and get it over with. Part of me hopes against hope that by getting out of this house and out of this town that I will find some reason to live again. I don’t want to be a ghost. If I’m going to live the rest of my life as a ghost I want to make that life brief, tragic and wasteful, like the duration of a tea candle’s flame.  

The black eye is still visible. I do not know how many times I’ve applied makeup to it. It’s still there, especially in brighter light. I pull out my tube of concealer and shakily squeeze more unto the back of my hand. The tube farts. It is empty. I begin to roll it like toothpaste, trying to urge the last drops out. A dismal portion exits the tube in another fart. I toss it in the trash and use what I have, religiously applying it to my bruised eye and giving a little to my unaffected eye, trying to make them match as much as possible. It doesn’t reduce the swelling or the pain, but it looks presentable enough. I wish I had some lipstick, anything to put some color in my face.

I am not sure what to wear for this evening. I do not know if this Eden’s Gate church is a “come as you are” sort of thing or if I should put on something a little more presentable than my oversized pajamas. I open my closet. My father burned half my wardrobe when I missed my curfew by ten minutes one night. But he left the things that my mother passed down to me. Probably some of the few things left that still remind him of her. I find a light green dress she used to wear. Mamma was so pretty. I don’t think I’ll ever be as pretty as she. I put it on regardless. It zips easily, for its rather loose. Just six months ago it was too tight. I was afraid I’d break the zipper. Now there is no I fear of that at all. White lace adorns the sleeves and my cleavage. I debate pulling the neckline down or up.

“It’s _church_ , Rachel,” I tell myself, “Besides, no one will want to look at you anyway.”

The last thought bites. It’s a personal truth. I look down and rediscover the scratches. I tug my dress at the back, raising the neckline.

Fortunately the doorbell rings just in time. I leave my bathroom and stop at the door to the hallway.

Once you’ve been in captivity, once you’ve been locked up alone with your thoughts for long enough, once you’ve accepted that you’re stuck, you don’t bother trying doorknobs anymore. You’re used to reaching that hard spot where it stops turning and opens nothing. It takes me a moment to touch the handle. I know it will feel cold. I know the distinct shape it has and how it will fit into the palm of my hand. What I do not know is whether or not it will open. It might reach that hard lock. I might’ve gone through all of this trouble and not be able to leave.

Knowing this, I twist, hoping for the best.

To my relief, it unlocks effortlessly and opens without so much as a creak. I head downstairs to greet my friend.

* * *

Sitting in the chapel in the ranch, I feel so nervous. My body shivers. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I do not know if it is withdrawal or what. But I am not completely at ease. The people here are disheveled. Messy. Somewhat gross. The kind of person I would become if I let my addiction keep its grip on me. They are the types that my father would advise me to steer away from, however in his current state he is more like them than he knows. I am more like them than he knows

A tall, fit man with a full, well groomed dark beard strides unto the stage in a flourish of applause. He completely contrasts the people sitting in the pews. He is nicely dressed, wearing a fitted blue silk shirt rolled up at the cuffs, black vest, and tight jeans. His belt buckle is exceptionally extravagant. A pendant of some sort hangs from his neck. The crowd cheers for him. He waves, flashing a million dollar smile and a glint in his bright blue eyes. He’s handsome.

I turn and whisper to Tracey, “If I knew that pastors could look as good as he does I would’ve come to church a long time ago.”

She smirks and holds back a giggle, “You’re terrible.”

“He’s hot,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Shhhhhh!” She tries not to laugh, “Behave.”

“Who is he?” I ask as if I were inquiring about a handsome stranger across a bar, not a preacher at the front of a church.

“That’s John Seed,” she tells me, “He doesn’t give the sermon. He’s just the opening act.”

“There’s _more_ of them? Tracey, you told me this was _church_ , not that mythical place where all of the hot guys in Hope County disappeared to!”

“Rachel, shut up!” She giggles again, but then whispers to me, “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s as good as they get, well, looks wise.”

“Bummer. That means we’ll have to fight for him.”

“Rachel!”

Our laughter is camouflaged by the cheers and shouts from people in the pews, phrases like “Oh John!” and “We love you!” and “Praise our brother”. I observe the scene. Sometime during our banter two other people entered the stage. One, a very tall, burly, fearsome man with a long frizzy red beard and bloodshot beady eyes. He holds a large semi-automatic rifle close to his body and scans the crowd meticulously as if in search of possible threats. The gun and his intimidating stance both unsettle me. Though he wears the uniform shirt of the U.S. army, his demeanor is not one of honor or pride, but of sickened, disillusioned duty.  The other, a girl, with thick yellow curls and a bountiful bust contained inside a too-tight white dress. She has slanted, sultry brown eyes. There is a whorelike, slutty quality about her despite her conservative dress. But she is undeniably beautiful. I self consciously remember looking at my own chest this morning. Scratches everywhere. Nothing to be proud of. I run my fingers through my mousy hair, wishing I’d washed it. The beautiful woman holds a bouquet of flowers, with several blossoms strewn throughout her golden locks. She smiles at John.

I roll my eyes out of jealousy and look at Tracey, motioning to the girl sitting on stage, “Don’t tell me it’s a wedding,”

She shakes her head, “Oh no, that’s his sister. Faith. I don’t quite know if marriage is a thing here or if they’re all about brotherly sisterly love or if it’s just one massive orgy. I have no idea.”

I laugh at her raunchy train of thought. This is the Tracey I love.

“And who is Mr. Scary over there?” I whisper, trying not to make it obvious who I am talking about.

“Oh, him?” She whispers back, “I don’t know...He wasn’t here last time. I don’t exactly know what the gun is for, either.”

“Maybe he’s exerting his second amendment right?” I tease with a horrible attempt at the stereotypical redneck drawl.

She looks at me. It’s not funny. “Why do they even need guns?”

Trying to sooth my own nerves as well, “Tracey. We live in Montana. Everyone’s got guns here.”

“I know… but something’s not right.”

I look around the room again, “Maybe his job is to stop desperate bitches like us from throwing ourselves at that hottie over there?”

She bursts out laughing.

Our conversation is interrupted by John’s voice, “Brothers and sisters, welcome!” he proclaims, arms outstretched.

Applause. Tracey and I join in. At the moment we are spectators, like flies on a wall carefully observing but not yet involved.

“I want to tell you,” he continues, “how wonderful it is to see _all_ of these new faces in our home this evening.” His eyes find mine momentarily. I’m intimidated by his strong presence yet also trying my hardest not to swoon. “We hope that this is just the beginning of your march with us.

“I want you to think of the life you’ve led before now. Of all the pain, of all the suffering, of every road you’ve turned down that felt like a dead end. I want to assure you, brothers and sisters, that the ship you’ve sailed across a sea of hardship is about to dock. I give to you a new captain who will guide you to an island of paradise. My brother, your Father, Joseph Seed!”

The crowd stands, clapping and cheering, holding their hands up in praise. The church doors open, and the blazing golden sunset from the west illuminates the doorway, revealing the silhouette of a tall, broad shouldered man. The light comes through his yellow tinted glasses, creating two glowing dots on the ground in front of him.

He moves with a serenity. There is a comforting sense of peace, a radiance that surrounds him. His suit jacket fits him well. His long hair is tied in a small bun on the crown of his scalp. He carries a white book with the symbol of the Project etched in gold on the cover. A rosary is wrapped like a bracelet across his right wrist and palm.

I cannot yet see his face. I too am standing, on my toes, craning my neck around the people in front of me, squinting. Finally when he reaches the stage, he turns around, and the crowd goes silent. They return to their seats. I am the last to stay standing.

Our eyes lock like magnets. I do not need to hear his voice. He does not need to utter a single word. A look comes across his sullen, rugged face. He catches his breath. The room is completely silent. Time slows. My heartbeat pounds. He looks as though he has seen a ghost. I know I look like a ghost. Perhaps it is that I seem so weak and sickly that common sense says I should not be standing here, I should not be in this room. But I am. And I know, somehow, deep inside myself, that I am destined to be here. To meet him. His expression changes from one of shock to one of recognition, a longing for something far off in the distance which yet appears so near. A red string of fate ties the two of us together before either of us can object. But like some perfect private secret, I am afraid that anyone else caught on to it. As my awareness returns to the room, I sit. He swallows hard. I try to look away but I can’t. I’m already entranced.

He speaks right to me as he begins his sermon.

“It is fate that you have come here.”

His words are chilling. They pierce me.

Joseph continues, “It is God’s divine plan that you are here today. Whether you’ve devoted yourself to this project or if this is your first time with us, I tell you that you are here for a reason. This is no accident. This is no chance.”

His speech, though indirect and addressed to a crowd, feels so personal. It is as if despite all of the people in this room he is talking to me and me alone. I know that it is no accident, that it is no chance, that I am not confused. The connection I feel with him is mutual. In a sea of strangers I am seen. We see each other.

“Just as such,” he goes on, respectfully connecting with the others in the pews, “your existence, your very entrance into this world, your birth, your conception...all is for a reason.”

He cannot stand it long. Joseph looks directly at me again and reads my soul like an open book. “You who have felt lost, unwanted, undesired, and unnecessary to the world: have no fear. You have a purpose.” He assures me, “Your life is designed to have significance. Even when the road is foggy, when the path is untred and you know not which step to take, know that God has a destination for you. I have a destination for you.”

My eyes well with tears. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe. Sheltered. Believed in.

His voice, like silk, his words, like music, envelope me. “When all doors have shut against you, when your friends and your families turn their backs on you, I will be standing here with open arms. I accept you, my children, just as you are. There is nothing you have to change. No one else you have to be. You are loved here, just as you are. And you have always been worthy of that love.”

I break.

When the people around me hear my sobs interrupt the silence of Joseph’s pause, they turn to me with a look of celebratory joy on their faces. A woman on my right with very few teeth and hair bordering on dreadlocks pulls me against her bosom and holds me. Two young men reach back from their seats in front of me and pat me on my shoulder. Now the entire church is watching me, overjoyed. Someone starts the applause.

I feel a new hand on my back from my left side. I turn, expecting it to be Tracey. But it’s not. It’s the woman in the white dress from onstage. The sister.

“Come with me,” she beckons.

I don’t know what this means. “Wh-why?”

I look at Tracey. For the first time she’s looking at me not as my best friend. She seems bitter, disgusted, as if I’m filth. Trash. Foolish. Petty. As if I had no soul.

Faith speaks softly to me, “The Father wants to meet you. Won’t you come up?”

I laugh through my tears, “I’m interrupting the service.”

“No no no,” she’s overbearingly gentle, “Please come up. Nothing would make us happier.”

“Go to the Father,” the woman holding me into her bosom says, lifting my torso towards Faith. I take the sister’s hand, and she walks me down the aisle towards The Father who awaits me by the altar.

When we reach it, Faith hands me over to him and returns to her seat.

His hands are smooth and cold. His eyes, up close, are a vortex behind his yellow glasses. Full of wisdom and peace, as if he had reached that Nirvana the Buddhists dream of. He’s good looking. Not in the way that John is good looking. John is the kind of untouchably handsome, out of everyone’s league yet inside every girl’s dreams. The Father is approachable yet with a true sense of authority, like all fathers should be.

“What is your name my child?”

Intoxicated by him, I forget it on the spot. “My name?”

“Your name.”

“Rachel,” I swallow, “Rachel Jessop.”

His lips turn up at the corners.

“Tell me, Rachel. What is making you cry?”

I search for the answer in his eyes and find it, “The feelings that your words are bringing me. Feelings of safety. Salvation.”

He holds my face in his hands, “Salvation from what, dear Rachel?”

Feeling all eyes on me, I choke up. “F-from my life. From my agony.”

He nods slowly, knowingly.

“And what gives you this pain?” He continues to hold my face so that I cannot look anywhere else except straight into his magnificent eyes. More tears come.

My next words are succinct, for I’m clinging to my composure. “My father and my brother beat me. I’m bullied endlessly by my peers. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”

He continues his knowing nod. “My brothers and I know intimately of your struggle. Don’t we?” He looks to John and Jacob.

I see John nod in my periphery, but Jacob makes no expression whatsoever.

Joseph’s left hand softens into a gentle caress, “What else, child?”

He pulls the words out of me, words I am sure I shouldn’t even say in front of so many people. “I abuse drugs for help,” the rest is a stream of consciousness through my tears, “I’m a rat. I rummage for anything I can get my hands on. I always thought I deserved this life… like I did something irredeemably wrong and my circumstances are a consequence. I take every blow and I let others take from me… but there is no hatred in my heart for anyone except for myself. I don’t blame them. I think it’s all my fault.”

He sighs, looking at me with pity and understanding, “What if I told you, Rachel, that none of it is your fault?”

This concept is foreign to me, “How?”

“The pain you suffer is not because of your own personal ills. If that we’re the case, why aren’t the money grubbers, the corrupt politicians and greedy business owners punished with the same abuses you experience?”

I look at him blankly, “I don’t know.”

“It’s society that is sick, Rachel. It’s the ills in society which are responsible for the pain and the suffering of the innocent. It’s not your fault. They don’t understand you, so they try to take you out.”

The clouds part in my mind. The sky is clear. I’ve never thought of it it that way. I never considered that I am not the problem.

“But here,” He touches my forehead to his. I adore the feeling. “Here you may be saved, Rachel. Here your differences are celebrated. Put to use. Here you can be fulfilled and you can be happy. That’s what this Project offers.”

The Project, on their cue, claps again, pleased with the power of their leader’s message. Joseph looks straight into my eyes. I feel his anchor sinking in to me. And I know I will follow him into the darkest depths of the sea.

“We will talk more, Rachel.” He says. I am passed back to Faith and seated beside her. She holds my hands tightly.  Joseph continues his main speech to the rest of the crowd.

“The world as we know it, as we see it today, is full of fog. Clutter. Sin. Distractors from our destined path. My children, can’t you feel that the world around us today is not the world that God intended to create? You, like Rachel, who have found yourselves here today as a result of his divine plan must be aware, even if remotely, of this fact?

“Let me tell you: God is angry. God intends to wipe this world clean again, the way he flooded the earth allowing only Noah and his family to board the arc. We are once again approaching a storm. Which is why, my children, God spoke to me. He has called to me to reach out to all of you, to each and every one of you, that you might be saved. That you might be redeemed. That you might discover your purpose and follow the path which he has set for us. My children, won’t you take my hand? Won’t you take hands with me, my brother Jacob, my brother John, and my sister Faith and join us in our march to Eden’s Gate?

“You do not need to decide tonight. But I hope that at the very least, I have planted a seed.”

John is the first to laugh at his closing statement. Jacob again, has no reaction. As the crowd catches on, the chuckling grows. I myself laugh through my tears, but when I look in the audience, I see Tracey scowling.

* * *

Crickets conduct their nightly symphony as Tracey and I walk through the long grass back to her pickup truck. She’s quiet, but her anger can be felt loud and clear. She’s walked a few steps ahead of me the whole way.

“Tracey,” I stop her, grabbing her hand.

I look into her dark eyes, those eyes that know more about me than any other soul on this earth. My closest and dearest friend.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She scoffs, “What the hell happened between the two of you just now?”

I know she is talking about the moment I shared with Joseph, then my emotional breakdown and our uncanny closeness that took up a bulk of the sermon.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it yet.”

She crosses her arms for warmth, pulling on her long sleeve t-shirt. “It was...awkward- no, uncomfortable, no-- Rachel what the _fuck_ was that? What the actual _fuck_ was _that_?”

Suddenly I reread a beautiful chapter in my life as if it were some sort of vulgar oddity. I’m embarrassed. I look down.

“Look, Rachel.” Tracey sighs, “I know there are some things we don’t talk about. I know that everyone has got secrets. I just wish I knew before we came--”

I look up at her, confused. “Knew what?”

She swallows. “I shouldn’t say anything. Who am I to judge? I mean…”

“What are you trying to say?” I demand defensively.

“Nothing!” She puts her arms up and takes a step back from me. “Let’s just go home. Your dad is probably worried.”

“I don’t want to go home.” I tell her. It’s the truth.

She gives me a look of shock and confusion. “Rachel, these people…there is something not right about them.  They’re apocalyptic. They’re all talking about willing to die for that man. It’s like they’re being brainwashed. Some kind of new age Japanese kamikaze squadron ready to blow themselves up! Not to mention they look like a bunch of crackheads.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye, “I want you to get _better_ , Rachel. I’m afraid these people will just-just exploit your addiction. They won’t heal you. They’ll make you worse.”

“At least I don’t feel like the odd one out!” I shout at her. I am more frustrated with the situation than with my friend. “I don’t know how much more I can take! I don’t _want_ — No, I _can’t_ go back to my dad, Tracey. I can’t go back to school. I’m already failing. It’s not like I’m going to graduate. I’ve got nothing! I haven’t eaten a proper meal in three months! What am I going to do with my life besides waitressing or prostituting myself or having some rich man’s kids? This place…” I start to tear up, “I know it’s not perfect but it’s better than what I have now.”

She scoffs. “You _know_ that you’re better than that Rachel.”

I laugh, but I’m exasperated. “I don’t! I fucking don’t! I’m not like you, Tracey! I’m not smart! I can’t get a degree. I don’t have a mom who supports me and takes care of me.”

I’ve wounded her. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“And you know what?” Tears stream down, “I’m not your fucking charity case.”

“Well what makes you think you’re _theirs_ all of a sudden? What makes you think you’re  _his_ all of a sudden?”

So that’s it.

“You’re jealous,” I call her out.

She laughs it off. “Sorry, Rachel. I’m not jealous of your forty-something schizophrenic preacher boyfriend.”

Our argument becomes petty, like that of two bratty schoolgirls, the kind of people we have never been before. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“Oh really?”

“Why would you even say that?”

“Well you sure seem pretty close don’t you?”

“I don’t know what happened!” I yell. “I never met that man before tonight! You heard me on the phone! I had no idea who this group was or what they do!”

Her mouth twitches. “Well you’re a damn good liar Rachel.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re trying to tell me that the little scene you made back there wasn’t planned?”

I shake my head. “I don’t see how it could be.”

“And I don’t see how it _couldn’t_ be.”

“Tracey!” I try so hard to get through to her, but nothing is working, “I’ve never lied to you! Not once in all these years!”

She’s quiet.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

She sighs and looks away.

I know that she is jealous. But I realize in that moment that she is not jealous of what happened to me tonight. She’s jealous because she can’t believe that I can find peace and happiness in a different place, that I can find it with people other than her.

“They aren’t trying to fix me,” I say with an angry, cold, hard certainty,  “All you ever do, all you ever talk about is trying to fix me. You believe that I’m broken. You want me to be broken so you have something to do with your life besides sit in your nice fucking house with your nice fucking family. All I want...for God’s sake all I want is to feel like I have a purpose. I don’t want to be someone else’s purpose, Tracey. I want to be my own purpose.”

Tracey continues to avoid looking at me. She glances in different directions, looks at the ground by her feet. “So that’s it, Rachel?”

“What’s it?”

“You’re just going to throw our friendship away?”

I want to shake her. “What? No! Tracey that’s not what I said!”

She glares at me. “I’ve been here for you. I’ve fought for you for the last three years. We’ve grown up together. I’m sorry that’s not enough.”

“Tracey!”

She’s running to her truck. I try to follow her, but my lungs and legs are weak.

“Tracey!”

She’s too fast. I feel dizzy. My vision starts to blur. I try to pick up speed.

“Tracey I didn’t say that!”

She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t look back. Gets in her car, starts the engine. The lights turn on and she speeds away.

I watch her tail lights fade. I’m sick of the taste of my own tears. I’m sick of this life. I drop to my knees and grip the grass as hard as I can with my fists. I scream into the blue night sky. What is the way? Where is the path? What is my life supposed to be? Who am I now that I have no one? I can’t walk home. I don’t want to walk home. I could call a cab but I don’t have any money.

If I go home, I don’t know if I will ever get out of the house again.

I hear Joseph’s words in the back of my head. I remember them almost verbatim: “When all doors have shut against you, when your friends and your families turn their backs on you, I will be standing here with open arms. There is nothing you have to change. No one else you have to be. You are loved here, just as you are. And you have always been worthy of that love.”

I turn around, take a deep breath, and run back to the ranch. It glows with warm light from inside. It’s the only light I see.


	2. Impressions

I don’t knock when I open the big door back into the ranch. I want to believe that what Joseph said was true, that I really would be welcomed with open arms. The chapel is empty, dark except for a few candles lit by the altar. I hear laughter on my right. Above a wooden staircase there’s an open door with light coming through it. Something smells delicious.

I take the stairway up to that door. Inside the room there are rows and rows of project members seated and eating food. In the very back, near a fireplace, sitting at a table identical to those preceding it is Joseph. On his right is Jacob, on his left is John, and next to Jacob is Faith. From her, every seat until the end of the table is taken by project members. They sit like all of the others sit. Like ordinary people. Like family.

An older man with long gray hair and an unshaven face notices me, nudging his table mates. More and more parties do the same, until the entire dining hall is looking at me. The room grows silent.

When the train of attention reaches him, Joseph immediately stands up. Like the moment we shared an hour before, we are the only ones standing. The crackle of the fire is the only sound. But everyone is watching. I’m not sure if I am welcome and I’m not sure if I should say anything about it. The whole room awaits for their Father to speak.

When he finally does, it’s not what I expect.

“Where’s your friend?”

I don’t know how to answer it in front of this crowd. But something tells me I could say very little and Joseph would know the whole story.

“She didn’t understand,” I say.

As I predicted, he nods that same knowing nod.

“Come,” he calls me over, “have a seat.”

Not expecting the offer, it takes me a moment to begin my slow walk toward his table at the end of the dining hall. All eyes are on me. Not a word is said. When I reach my destination, I notice that there isn’t an open seat available.

Before I can say anything,  Jacob stands, towering over me like Goliath, and pulls out his chair. He offers it to me.

Humbled, I try to suggest an alternative, “Oh, thank you, but I don’t want to steal your seat—“

“Take it.” It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is deep, raspy. It lacks the flow and resonance that characterize Joseph’s voice, and the eloquence and charisma that characterize John’s. “I’m finished anyway.” He picks up his empty bowl and plate, carrying them off into what I assume to be the kitchen, leaving me the chair.

“My brother. Such a gentleman.” Joseph gives me a slight smile. His statement feels out of place, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that is so close yet somehow not perfect, for I find Jacob’s harsh disposition contradictory to the kindness of his gesture.

Reluctantly, I maneuver into the seat. John and Faith share a quick glance with each other and smile at me. Their expressions seem forced. They don’t greet me. This demeanor is the opposite of the welcome I felt when I was led to the front of the church.The dining hall is still quiet. I am very uncomfortable.

Joseph notices my tension and addresses the crowd, “Eat, my children. Your food is getting cold.”

They return to their meals on command. The situation resolved, Joseph returns his attention to me.

“You came back.” He remarks.

We’re right by the fire but my body shivers. My skin is clammy but I’m not nervous. Then I remember I’ve spent the entire day completely sober. I’ve also spent the entire day completely hungry.

“Yes.” I say, wringing my hands beneath the table. I try to hide my body’s shakes.

I can’t help it. He notices.

“You’re cold.” He takes off his jacket. “Here.”

Just as I did when I tried to refuse Jacob’s seat, I try to refuse Joseph’s jacket. “Oh, thank you, but I’ll be alright.”

“Nonsense. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Sorry.” I apologize out of habit.

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

He places his jacket over my shoulders. It’s warm, unlike his cold hands I felt upon my face earlier. It helps a little, but my body cries out for other comforts. What I’d do for a joint right now.

He looks at me and my surrounding area, assessing my needs. It’s odd. I’m not used to being taken care of, or even considered. _Twice is enough for tonight_ , I think to myself, _You’ve reached your limit on favors, Rachel._

Joseph, having thought of something, snaps his fingers. Instantaneously a project member wearing an apron is by his side.

“Something to eat for her, please.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Oh, thank you, but—“ I try once again.

He’s not taking any objections. “You’re hungry.”

I think of my mother who always knew without knowing exactly what her children needed and wanted.“How do you know?” I ask.

The right corner of his lip curves up, “I just do.”

That magnetic field fires up again between us. A small smile cracks out of my lips, “Thank you.”

Our eye contact is interrupted when, out of nowhere, I feel Faith’s leg brush against mine as she extends it underneath the table toward John’s. I look at her face. She’s fixated on buttering a piece of cornbread and does not look at him whatsoever. When her toes reach his calf, John swallows hard and puts his glass down.

“Excuse me,” he says before rising and heading down a hallway. Joseph dismisses him with a nod.

Faith bites her cornbread slowly. That slutty quality to her is present even as she eats her food. She moves her mouth with purpose and seems to use her tongue to clean her cheeks in a very intentional way. It’s bizarre. You feel dirty just by looking at her. I notice her dark eyes, the lids low on the iris, almost sleepy. I know that look. She’s high. But I can’t tell on what.

I wonder if Joseph is seeing what I’m seeing. He’s ignoring her entirely, as if she were just a cat cleaning itself on the end of a sofa and both of them were minding their own business. He’s got a far off look in his eye, one of deep contemplation.

The project member returns carrying a bowl full of chili and two squares of cornbread. Though I’ve gotten used to the emptiness of hunger, the food in front of me makes my stomach growl.

“Thank you,” I say. As I get ready to take my first bite, Faith finishes her bread, stands, says nothing, and exits. No ‘excuse me’. No ‘thank you.’

The first bite is heavenly. I’d forgotten what real food tastes like. I try to savor every morsel, but hunger gets the best of me. I eat as quickly as I can without scarfing or burning my tongue.

“Easy,” Joseph cautions, “You’ll get a stomach ache.”

I pause very briefly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Try the bread.”

It’s exquisite. Cooked perfectly, crumbly and slightly sweet.

“Do you eat like this all the time?”

“You came on a good night.”

I continue eating, slowing down a little. The people further along the table are watching us and whispering. I don’t know that I like being on display.

I speak lowly to Joseph, “Do they always...watch you like this?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “No. Never.”

That’s not the answer I wanted to hear. “Oh gosh.”

“What makes you say that?”

I shrug. “I don’t like being stared at.”

He sips his water. “When you feel their eyes on you,” he sets down his glass, “what do you think they’re thinking?”

I shrug again.

“I’ll tell you what I think they’re thinking,” he leans close to me, “nothing bad at all.”

“What? No.” I deny it.

“They’re probably wondering what your story is. They’re probably wondering what enabled my message to reach you today. Who you are. Where you come from. That sort of thing.”

“I think they’re wondering why I’m here.” I say negatively.

He looks at my hands, “They might be.”

“They’re wondering how it is that I’ve only been to one sermon and I’m already sitting next to you.” I put down my spoon. “I guess I am wondering that myself.”

He takes my left hand in his, squeezing it gently. I’m surprised by his forwardness. My heart starts to race again.

“I’d like to know you,” he says, “if I can.”

I feel like he already does. With every word and every gesture I feel myself being knitted into him. I get tangled in that red string of fate that brought us together tonight. He’s more handsome in this light. The kind of man you’d see wearing an expensive watch on the back cover of a magazine. But he’s not a showoff. Not at all. I want to know his mind. I want to know what keeps him awake at night. I want to know what colors he sees the world in. What colors he sees me in.

“I’d like to know you too.” I admit.

Another gentle squeeze. The project members continue to stare. I notice that not a single pair, regardless of age, sex, or apparent relationship, are touching in any way whatsoever. They appear to abide by a different set of rules than their leader, or perhaps power allows him to break the rules however he wants.

“Some might be jealous.” He says. I can’t tell if he’s trying to soothe me or if he’s just doing the same thing I do: overthinking it.

“I’ve got nothing worth envying.” I reply.

He gives me a strange look. Not one of pity, but of pleasure. Of amusement, perhaps enjoyment, I can’t tell which. As if he likes my insecurity. Like those people who could eat a lemon slice and enjoy the sour taste, not be turned away by it.

“You’re beautiful.”

I’m caught off guard by the warmth that swells in my heart. I extinguish the feeling right away, hopefully before it was caught onto by him or by anyone else. What is he seeing? Why does he see it? No one,  not even Tracey, has never called me beautiful. Pretty at best, but never beautiful. I’m a face in the crowd. I know that. Why am I hearing it from a practical stranger and why am I hearing it now?

I shake my head immediately. “I’m not beautiful. Your sister, _she_ is beautiful.”

His eyes beg for more of that sour taste. “In her way. You in yours.”

Charming as his words are I don’t feel worthy of them in the slightest. I look at our hands and notice my sleeve has slid further up my arm, revealing two of the five bruises I counted earlier. “Sorry.” I apologize with an emptiness, withdrawing my hand and pulling down my sleeve.

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

My eyes dart away first. Without a word we stop looking at each other and the interaction ends. I continue eating. There’s a sudden emptiness in me. I look at the food in front of me and bite my lip. I can’t keep my eyes off him for long. I watch him watch that spot on the wall again, his relaxed hand resting over his mouth, fingers sliding across his lips and through his beard passively. I feel guilty for letting go of his hand. I feel guilty for rejecting his opinion of me.

I miss his touch already.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

His eyes move away from that spot on the wall and lock with mine. He smiles gently, as if somewhat relieved.

“About tonight.” He says.

I bite my lip again. “What about tonight?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I wish I could get through everyone the same way I managed to get through to you.”

I look around the dining hall again. There has to be at least a hundred people in here. “Well you seem to have gotten through to quite a few.”

He sips his water. “It wasn’t the same. I think I’ve said the same words, preached the same message, a hundred times. And they listen, sure. They listen and they nod. Sometimes they clap, shout amen, that sort of thing. But you…you are different.”

Different is better than beautiful.

“And then there are those,” he goes on, “The locals, I mean, people like your friend, if you don’t mind me saying, who choose not to listen. Who choose not to understand. I offer them chance after chance and they refuse it. I keep trying to help them see...but their pride just consumes them.”

If that’s why, then maybe the reason he got through to me is because I have no pride in anything at all.

“Maybe it’s because they’re happy with their life,” I suggest, “I’ve never been happy with mine.”

He takes my hand again. “I wasn’t either, Rachel. Until I heard the Voice. God’s Voice. That changed everything for me. I found purpose. All the pain, all the suffering, it was finally worth something.”

I try to picture every blow I took from my father as a currency which I could build up to purchase salvation. If I had a Holy Dollar for every time my dad hit me I could buy myself ten acres of heaven. But it doesn’t work that way.

Feeling his hand in mine, his jacket on my shoulders, I can not help but think that this is the closest to heaven I’ve ever been.

“Well, you’re good at what you do.” I tell him.

He starts tracing little circles on the top of my hand with his fingers. It makes me nervous.

“At preaching, I mean,” I clarify. “I’m sure that people will come. In their own time. And if they don’t, it’s not your fault.”

He chuckles at me, “My job is to save as many as I can. As quickly as I can. Between you and I, unlike what I said tonight...there isn’t exactly time to wait on free will.”

“Good luck asking people around here to sacrifice that.” I sigh.

He chuckles again. “God gives his hardest battles to his strongest warriors. Haven’t you heard that saying before?”

“Of course,” I mutter. “But wouldn’t you rather they come to you willingly like I have?”

Hearing myself say it makes it real. I feel the anchor hit the ocean floor.

“I…” he searches for words, “I’m happy you did. But I can’t expect everyone to be so pure of heart. They need to be convinced, they...need to be argued with. Their pride needs to be knocked down. We need to help them see.”

The volume of his ambition overwhelms me. Suddenly it all feels like too much.

“Is there a restroom?” I ask, seeking a moment’s escape.

“Yes. Go into the hallway, take it to the end, turn left, open the first door on the right.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Following his instructions, I enter the hallway. _There isn’t exactly time to wait on free will._ Why did he say that? What was he talking about? It’s cryptic, prophetic, dark. As if the world was running out of time. I don’t understand it.

In my thoughts I’ve forgotten how to get where I was going. I pause, not remembering if I was supposed to take a left or a right. It had to be right. Or was it the door on the right? A right then a door on the left. I hope that’s what it was. What harm could it do if I open the wrong door anyway? I’ll just go back and try the other option. I decide to make a right and open the door on the left.  But the sight I see isn’t an empty restroom, or anything close to what I was expecting.

Faith sits on the top of a dresser with her smooth legs spread open. Pressed against her is John, one hand up her skirt, the other unzipping her dress, his teeth nibbling her neck. They gasp in unison and stare at me in shock when they feel the lights on them. Faith’s eyes fill with fear. John’s with rage. Both with panic.

I shut the light out quick as a camera flash and rush back into the dining hall. What did I just see? I know it was never meant for my eyes, for anyone’s eyes.

When I get back into the room, out of breath and shaken, once again all eyes are on me.

“What? Seen a ghost?” Joseph asks. He’s so calm. It makes me feel silly.

There’s nothing I can say. I don’t even know what I saw. I do, I do know, but it happened so quickly I can’t remember the details. I remember enough. Brother. Sister. Like that. It’s so revolting it should not exist. But it’s none of my business anyhow. I don’t want to betray anyone. I don’t know who I would be betraying, who would get in trouble, if anyone would get in trouble at all. I stay quiet.

Yet my face betrays me. I know Joseph knows. Whether he read my mind or put two and two together, I don’t know. A darkness spreads in his eyes. He stands with an aura of menace so strong it quiets the room. I’m frightened for anyone who might be the target of this silent rage.

* * *

 

 

The hall cleared out after that. Three project members in aprons are gathering the used plates and cutlery to be cleaned. As my mother taught me, when you’re the guest and you’ve been served it’s customary to help with the cleanup. My hands shake as I place knives on top of a plate, rattling. Burned in my mind is that scene. That scene which stained tonight like red wine on a white carpet. I want to forget. I think I should leave. I’m embarrassed out of my mind.

“You don’t need to do that.”

I jump. It’s Joseph. “I just thought I would help.” I say.

“There’s no need. Really.”

I feel like I’m lingering. “Thank you for the dinner.” I start to leave. I think I might call a cab after all and ask my dad to pay, or pay the driver later, or give him something else in return. I don’t know.

“Where are you going?” He asks. His tone demands nothing and yet I feel obligated to explain myself.

I stutter. “I think— really, um…I should go home.”

Concern paints itself across his face. “It’s late.”

“I can manage,” I say, turning to leave.

“Rachel.” My name sounds better the way he says it. I really don’t want to go. If it weren’t for that shocking moment I witnessed between John and Faith I would have no reason to. I curse the sight.

I hear the quiet footsteps of the others in the room fade. Doors shut. I assume he dismissed them. Joseph and I are alone.

“I see your bruises.” He states.

I’m not sure why the remark breaks my heart. Maybe it’s the effort I put into hiding them this afternoon. I turn back around and look up at him. Hearing that made me extremely self conscious. I keep the left side of my face away from him, trying to hide the black eye. But he grabs my chin gently and guides my head back to center. His expression is caring. Genuine. Protective.

“I know you’re trying to hide them.”

He’s right about that too. I feel like he’s right about everything.

“They’re nothing to be ashamed of. But…” he sighs, “they look painful.” He continues to take me in, “I know it’s not my place to tell you what’s best for you. I’m sorry if what I said about free will startled you earlier. I know you’re going to have to decide for yourself. But I don’t think you should go back to that place.”

He’s right once again. If I go back I might be locked up in my room until I die.

“You’re welcome to stay here.” He tells me. “You’ll be safe. We will take care of you. We all take care of each other here. But...if you want to leave, Rachel, if you don’t believe me, you may go.”

Of course I believe him. I feel sheltered and protected inside these walls. I have no doubt that I will be safe here. But that scene I should never have seen burns in my mind and I don’t think it is right for me to stay.

“You’re worried,” he reads me again, “what’s wrong?”

I’m reluctant to tell him the truth. “The situation between...between—“

“It’s already been taken care of. I assure you.”

I trust him without reason. I believe him without cause. Maybe because I think he understands me. Perhaps I find safety in his strength and authority. Or maybe I’m choosing to believe what he says is true just because I want it to be.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He smiles, “So...you aren’t leaving?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Come. Let’s get you to bed.”

I let him lead.


	3. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Sorry this is so late.  
> Chapter 3 was originally a "monster chapter" like Chapter 1, but it was taking forever and I was getting frustrated with it so I decided to give you guys the finished first half and release the latter half as Chapter 4. The good news is that now chapter 4 (and 5!) are practically finished so they should be out within 1-2 days :)....assuming I don't get horrid writers block in that time.  
> Much thanks to @your_taxidermy for discussing meta and sharing songs with me. I will be linking a playlist to this fic once Chapter 5 is released because the songs make more sense after Chapter 5.  
> Without further ado, enjoy!

The tranquil light of morning passes through the curtains and kisses my eyes. I could swear it was all just a dream.

But its not.

I awake surrounded by snow white sheets and cloudlike pillows, in a bed much bigger and a room much cheerier than my own. My phone buzzes on the wooden nightstand where I set it before I fell asleep. Eleven text messages, four voicemails, nine missed calls. I groan at the petulant, demanding notifications and toss the device aside. Couldn’t the rest of the world just leave me alone? It’s not like they care about me anyway.

Tracey’s face appears in my mind’s eye. Of all people, I’m sure she is worried about me. I pick my phone up again and unlock the screen. She texted me. My dad did too… but I’m not prepared to see those messages. I open up my chat with Tracey.

9:42pm _Hey girl...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like that._

10:02pm _Whatever you do, DO NOT stay the night with those people. Promise?_

10:36pm _Just checking in. Hope you got home safely. If you need me to come pick you up, I will. Let me know...don’t stay the night. I’m sorry again._

11:18pm _Rachel? Hello? Please tell me you’re alright._

11:25pm _MISSED CALL - Tracey_

12:54am _Hope your phone’s just dead. Call me. I’ll stop by your place in the morning if I don’t hear from you._

7:00am _MISSED CALL - Tracey_

7:20am _MISSED CALL - Tracey_

I check the time. 8:37am. I don’t want to call her back. But I know I ought to. I owe her that much.

It rings for barely a second before she picks up.

“Where the fuck are you?”

There’s resentment loaded in my voice. “Right where you left me. At the ranch.”

She’s furious. “I was up all night worrying about you!”

“Worried?” I scoff. “You left me here. Alone.”

“You wanted to stay!”

“If you were worried about me, why did you run off like that?” I interrogate.

She sighs like she’s breathing fire. “I was mad! Okay? I was...I just acted. I didn’t think. I got home and I felt so guilty. I tried to get a hold of you. Why weren’t you answering?”

“I was eating dinner.”

“The whole night?”

“No. I went to bed by eleven.”

“Why the fuck would you stay there?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Have you ever watched the news? Read a book? Weird shit happens to girls when we get involved in places like that. Bad things happen. You could have been raped! Drugged, murdered!”

She’s forgetting that I’ve already been raped. That she’s responsible for introducing me to drugs in the first place. I was safer last night than I ever was when I snuck into bars with her.

“You’re overreacting,” I say bitterly.

“I am _not_ overreacting, Rachel. Shit happens! And we know how...susceptible you are to things like that.”

That hits me hard, almost like an insult. All the more reason why she should never have left me alone. I go back to the revelation I had last night. Maybe she really did want me to be broken so she had someone to shelter, to fix, to protect. “And you,” I accuse, “You, knowing that, left me here?”

“I know,” another harsh sigh, “I’m fucking sorry, alright?”

“You say you were worried about me. But you didn’t even come back.” If she wanted to protect me she sure wasn’t doing a good job.

“I didn’t think you’d wanna see me again.”

There was a time when I would refute her in an instant, when I would deny that and tell her how much she means to me, how she is my best friend and I couldn’t live without her. But those days are over. She ended them last night.

I’m awfully bitter. My silence is cold as ice.

“Rachel?” She asks. I know she was anticipating a response. Perhaps in some other life, a different version of events, she would have gotten one.

“Hello? Rachel? Are you there?”

I think of last night. The way Joseph held my hand. His jacket on my shoulders. How his eyes searched for my every need. “You’re wrong about him, you know.”

I don’t need to see her to know that her heart just sank. “Oh God, Rachel. Don’t tell me you--”

“I what? Slept with him? You think I’m that low?” I scowl. “No. Whether you believe it or not he is a nice person. He’s a good person.”

“You’ve known him for less than twenty four hours and you’re already vouching for his character? Rachel what is _wrong_ with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me!” I yell. “If you had opened your heart like I did you’d see. You’d understand.”

“What on earth are you on? He thinks the world is going to end! You trying to tell me he is not crazy?”

“He cares about me.”

“And I don’t?”

“You abandoned me!”

“Rachel, he doesn’t know you. He’s just trying to lure you in to whatever trap he set.”

There’s a knock on my door. I go quiet.

“I mean,” Tracey continues. “I get it. He ‘spoke’ to you or whatever. But you can’t claim to know him. Not after one night. I’m sorry.”

A train of impatient knocking ensues.

Tracey sighs, “Are you there? Rachel? Are you even listening to me?”

“I have to go.” I mumble into the phone.

“What? No-”

I hang up. Several hard bangs on the door.

“Just a minute!” I call out.

It sounds like Jacob. “Good. You’re up. Food is downstairs, if you want any. We’re leaving soon. You coming?”

“Um,” I jolt out of bed too quickly and immediately regret it. The headache appears out of nowhere, a dull, agonizing throb behind my right eye. I can’t think straight. “Yeah. Yeah I’m coming.”

“A’ight.”

Dizzy, I lean on the bedpost. The headache makes me nauseous as it intensifies. The serene light is now much too bright. I struggle over to move the curtains so that the light does not poke through. It’s no use. It creates another, larger, even more intolerable gap.

I pick up my mother’s dress off the floor and put it on. I should have thought twice about abandoning my home without any of my possessions. But was there anything left behind worth bringing? It doesn’t matter. What’s killing me is this headache.

I slip on my sandals and head out toward the sound of the talk and the clinks of cutlery I hear in the kitchen. The three brothers sit around a modest round wooden table. Even more modest is the breakfast: toast, butter, a pitcher of water, and a small container of strawberry jam, unopened. Faith is absent. I hope last night has nothing to do with it. There’s an open seat for me.

“Good morning.” Joseph greets. He isn’t wearing his glasses. They sit on the table in front of him, still on display though not on his face. He looks so cool, so casual. His white shirt rolled up at the cuffs, the first two buttons undone, the jacket he placed around me last night hanging off the side of the chair he sits on.

I stop taking him in and look down, a slight smile on my face. “Good morning.”

“You look like you slept well,” he says.

It sounds like a compliment until Jacob starts chuckling.

I touch my hair self consciously, feeling the unruly, disheveled strands crawled up on the side of my head. That’s one thing I would have brought from home: a brush.

“I...I couldn’t find a mirror.” It’s a stupid lie. I didn’t even look for one.

John is tearing the crust off his toast, “That’s because there aren’t any.” He says with a tinge of indignance.

Joseph takes it upon himself to explain, “They encourage vanity.”

I understand his point, but looking at John, I don’t see how he could manage to put himself together as well as he does without one. The other two don’t seem to need it. The small bun in which Joseph keeps his hair seems done more out of convenience than fashion.

“Won’t you sit down?” Joseph invites.

I take the empty seat across from him. Jacob takes a bite out of a piece of toast so burnt it’s practically black. I don’t understand how anyone could tolerate that ashy taste.

“How can you eat that?” I ask curiously.

Jacob shrugs. “John left it in for too long and I don’t like wasting food.”

John continues to pick the crust off his toast as if in direct spite of his brother’s statement.

“Where is everyone else?” I ask, referring to the crowd from last night.

“Most of them headed north after dinner, back to their home.” Joseph says. “We’ve got our own...little village in the heart of the county.”

I nod, waiting for someone else to talk. The silence is uncomfortable. A clock ticks. My head continues to throb. I try not to show any discomfort. When no one says anything I ask another question.

“Where’s Faith?”

The men share glances with each other, conversing only with their eyes, as if to say, _You tell her. No,_ you _tell her. I’m not telling her._

“Is she still asleep?” I ask again.

John breaks the silence with a frustrated sigh and glares at Joseph “I _told_ you she was going to ask!”

“It’s not like she wouldn’t notice.” Jacob puts simply.

A dred fills me, “Is she alright?”

More looks that could kill. Glances that speak without saying anything at all.

“She left.” Joseph finally says.

It doesn’t make sense to me.“What?”

“She’s not here anymore. That’s the long and the short of it.” He states. His brevity is unlike him. It concerns me.

“I don’t understand-”

John wipes his mouth and stands up, “Don’t ask any more questions.”

“John.” Joseph warns.

Trying to avoid conflict, I say “I’m sorry”.

“You should be.” John bites back at me, full of blame.

Joseph interferes, calm but stern. “John. It’s not her fault.”

“Why are you taking her side?”

Jacob interrupts condescendingly. “Not at the table, you two.”

Clearly there’s been an argument here that started long before I came down. Neither of the younger brothers like being spoken to that way.

“Let’s just go,” John huffs, “I’ve got work to do.”

Joseph shakes his head, “Rachel hasn’t eaten yet.”

By this point I’ve given into my headache and am digging into my temple with my thumb. “Thanks, but...I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t feel well?” Joseph asks.

“It’s just a headache,” I brush it off. But it is more than that. The shivers and aches have returned. I try my best to ignore them.

John sighs. “Now can we leave?”

“What’s the hurry?” Jacob questions him. “This is your place, isn’t it?”

John examines the fingernails on his pristine hands before checking a leather watch on his left wrist. The timepiece is beautiful, and certainly not cheap. “It’s almost nine.”

Jacob raises his nose at his younger brother. “Your point?”

My headache has trailed down into my neck. The light in the room is too bright. Their voices ring in my ears even though they speak at normal volume.

“Settle down,” Joseph commands. “You want to leave, John?”

John thinks. “You know what? No. Jake’s got a point. I want _you_ to leave. This is my place. I’ve got work to do.”

“We’ve all got work to do.” Jacob barks. “Shut up, Cinderella.”

“Alright, well,” Joseph mutters, “We will leave you to attend to your business. Thank you for hosting us. Jacob? Will you drive?”

Jacob is already dangling his keys. He stands and grabs the jam jar. “Looks like you don’t want this.” He refers to John.

John rolls his eyes. He clearly doesn’t care and isn’t in the mood to talk about it. “Do _you_ want a jar of strawberry jam?”

“Nah,” Jacob shrugs, wrinkling his nose. “Just thought she might,” he gestures to me.

Before I can say a word, Joseph answers for me. “She’ll love it. Take it, Jacob. Rachel, go check your room, grab your things. Meet us outside.”

I nod obediently and head back upstairs to collect my phone. Looking at the mess I left, I decide to make the bed. I straighten the sheet, fold the duvet, and fluff the pillows. I brave through my headache and open the curtains, filling the room with light. I go back down.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I’m grabbed harshley by the shoulders and pulled around a corner. John clutches me like a hawk, digging his fingers into my shoulders and paralyzing me with fear.

“What do you want?” He asks in a vicious whisper, his breath sickeningly minty. When I don’t answer he clenches tighter, “Hm? What do you want?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, I-”

“You told him, didn’t you?”

I swallow hard. “Told him what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” He seethes. “I know. You and I both know. Last night. You walked in on her and me.”

His eyes are hot as blue fire. “You told Joseph.” He continues. We are so close I can see the lines on his face, faint traces of creases yet to be deepened by age. “You saw something you shouldn’t have and you spoke up about it. Why did you do it? Huh? What do you want?”

“Nothing.” I choke out.

“Then why did you-”

“I didn’t say anything.” I swear. “He just...he saw me, and he...he knew.”

His brows press together, confusion. “Are you trying to tell me he read your mind?”

“Look,” I sigh, my voice tangled by fear, “You were out of the room. He put two and two together.”

John laughs at me, “You think that was our first time? We had snuck away like that plenty of times before. For a whole year almost. Then you come along and he _finally_ puts two and two together?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaim, feeling defenseless “I don’t know. But that’s what happened. I didn’t say anything. I got back in and he saw my face and he-he just- he knew.”

He pushes me hard, forcefully releasing my shoulders. It is only a second before he grabs me again, pulling my hair harshly and pinning me to the wall. He’s no longer handsome. He’s brutal. Malicious. Terrifying.

“You’re lucky he likes you,” he tells me, “You’re so damn lucky. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t even be given a chance.”

I’m speechless. Fear is all I feel.

“Go.” He shoos, letting go of me again. “Get out.”

I do. I run out to the four door truck. Jacob is in the driver’s seat, with the engine already on and Joseph on the passenger side. I climb into the back.

My emotions catch up to me when the car starts moving. I’m overwhelmed. The withdrawals, the headache, the scare. I swallow a sob and try to breathe deeply. I look out at the scenery and count the trees.

Jacob eyes me in the rear view mirror. “You alright back there?”

I nod. Joseph turns around to look at me. I don’t move.

“Stop the car.” He commands.

Jacob knows better than to question him. He pulls over and puts the truck in park.  

Joseph gets out, slamming the passenger door, and opens mine.

He grabs my hands, “Look at me.”

I don’t. I can’t.

“Look at me.” He says again.

I try. And I do. Crystal blue eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever get over them. I’m awestruck every time.

“You’re safe,” he assures, “You’re safe with us. Alright?”

I trust him. But I don’t trust John anymore.

“What happened?” He asks gently.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t be here.” I say softly.

He reaches out to touch my face, wiping the tears that have fallen.“Who made you feel that way?”

I swallow. I don’t want to answer. I’m afraid to.

“You can tell me,” he whispers, “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you. I promise.”

I look straight at him. His face alone quiets my thoughts, kills my fear.

“It was John.” I admit.

He looks down and shakes his head. “It will be dealt with. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He lifts my hand up to his lips and kisses it. The sensation sends shivers down my spine. Something happens to me. Something happens to us. He pushed the envelope just far enough, took a baby step just small enough, inching forward on a long road ahead. I can’t see the end of that road. But I want him to keep going. We look at each other and there’s an agreement in our eyes, a contract written yet unsigned.

_You’re lucky he likes you. You’re so damn lucky._

John must’ve saw it last night. If he did, who else did?

“Would you like me to sit back here with you?” Joseph asks.

I swallow, still feeling the weight of his kiss on my hand. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

He nods, smiling softly, and stands up straight. He shuts my door, walks around the back of the truck, and opens the door on the opposite side. While he is doing so I catch Jacob’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Was he watching us? Did _he_ see? Regardless, he shakes something off, and fixes his eyes on the road. Back to business. Back to duty. Joseph takes the seat next to me, shuts the door, and delicately rests his hand on top of mine, intertwining our fingers. We stay like this the whole ride.


	4. Touch and Tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Chapter 4 is here!!  
> I just wanted to take a moment and thank everyone for leaving kudos and bookmarking this fic. I am so glad to see people enjoying this story! It really means a lot to me.  
> Now, on with the show!

When we reach the top of the hill, a woman approaches our car. She wears a long woven cotton dress of a grayish tan color, the Project’s insignia printed large in red on the lower right of her skirt. Her black hair is flecked with strands of silver and pulled back in a braid. She does not appear to be older than forty.

I look at the scenery behind her. Two white buildings overlooking a cliff, surrounded by small trees and rows of flowers. The dusty pavement becomes a series of stone tiles and concrete stairways. Covering the paths connecting the buildings are several beautiful white arches. Sometime during my observation the men got out of the truck. Joseph opens my door for me and offers his hand. I take it and step out. But he doesn’t let go of it. Then again I don’t let go of his, either. 

We walk towards the woman with Jacob a few steps behind us, his footsteps slower and heavier, as if he were keeping his distance and intentionally staying closer to the truck

“Welcome back, Father,” the woman says. She wears a placid, welcoming smile. Her skin is a warm copper color, with little wrinkles save a few around the eyes. 

“Hello Megan,” Joseph kisses her forehead quickly, with the sort of platonic affection befitting a close in-law or an aunt. Her smile widens, but when her eyes catch the sight of Joseph’s hand in mine it drops. 

“Who’s this?” She asks. I think I detect a tinge of jealousy in her voice, but I can’t be sure.

“This is Rachel,” His eyes glint when he looks at me, as if they were smiling all on their own. “She’s joining The Project. I was hoping you could help her acclimate?”

Megan nods curtly. “Of course, Father,” then, politely, if a bit dishonestly, she adds, “I’d be happy to.”

I extend my free hand, my right hand, to shake her’s, hoping to get us back on the right foot.“Nice to meet you.”

She takes it and shakes it weakly, briefly, with no eye contact. 

“A’ight, well,” Jacob chimes in, “I’ve got work to do. Joseph? You staying?”

“I am.” He says. “Just to make sure Rachel gets settled.”

Jacob hands me the jar of jam he took from John’s ranch.

“Thank you,” I say.

“No problem at all.” He nods shortly, turning and walking back to the truck. “I’ll see you later.”

“Perfect.” Megan says to me. “You may share it with the girls.”

Her remark is uncalled for, then again no one eats a jar of jam on their own. I nod and smile at her. “Wonderful.”

“Come,” she says, “I’ll show you around.”

We follow her toward the buildings. The faint sound of wind chimes can be heard in the soft June breeze. An aura of peace surrounds the place. Joseph untwines his hand from mine and places it gently on my shoulder blade, guiding me. I keep thinking about that kiss he left on my hand. Every action since then sends shivers down my spine. 

“Welcome to Eden’s Convent,” Megan says. “Girls like you stay here when they first join the Project.”

“It’s beautiful,” I remark as my eyes take in every little detail.

Megan opens a door to the larger of the two buildings. “Here we have our congregation hall. The Father will give sermons here from time to time. Most of the girls are singers. They’ve formed a small choir.” she points up to a ledge behind us, “They sing from up there during services. But we mostly use this room to teach and study The Father’s word.”

“Are you a singer?” Joseph asks me. That glint in his eye is still there, as if any answer I gave would please him immeasurably just to hear the sound of my voice.

I shrug. “A little,” I say, “In the shower, mostly.”

He smirks.

Megan interrupts our moment, “Perhaps the others can teach you some of their songs. What part do you sing?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Soprano, alto..?”

I shake my head, “No idea.”

The woman sighs, looking at me as if I was some sort of hand me down or fixer upper. Like I wasn’t impressive but I’d do just fine. “Well then, no matter. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

We continue our walk, finding ourselves back outside, taking one of the paths under the archways towards the smaller building. Megan opens the door. Rows and rows of bunk beds made neatly, set in front of each is a book like the one that Joseph carried in with him during his sermon. 

“This,” she says, “This is where the girls sleep.”

The room is dark, unappealing overall. I wish someone would have put some more windows in here. It feels like something out of a forgotten century, one of those dreary boarding schools from a Victorian novel. I nod at it. “It’s very...practical.”

Joseph parts from me and heads to another door. “And this,” he says, opening it, “This is your room.”

It’s charming. Much brighter than the dorm. There’s a wooden bed tucked into the corner, with a nightstand beside it and a vase full of white trumpet shaped flowers. On the bed rests a folded white cotton dress with the Project’s cross printed on the center, once again in red. It’s all set up like someone had been expecting me to arrive. 

Megan dares to object, still lingering in the large dark dorm with all the bunk beds. “But, Father, all the other girls share a room. Even I do. Besides there is still plenty of space-”

He turns to her with a serious look in his eye.

“I mean,” Megan tries to explain, seeking words “This is where Sister Faith stays, when she visits us.”

Joseph ushers her into the room, then leans down and whispers something in her ear. He motions to the new clothes on the bed. Her brows separate and raise, from confusion to shocked surprise and finally down to settled, if somewhat disappointed, understanding. 

“I see.” She says. “Yes. My mistake. You will be staying here, Rachel.”

I wonder what he told her. But in any case it was whispered and therefore not meant for my ears. I run my fingers across the smooth edge of the nightstand, admiring the flowers set on it. “It’s lovely,” I turn around looking up at him with a grin, “Thank you.”. 

“We will let you get changed,” Megan states. “Meet us in the congregation hall when you’re ready. The other girls will be back soon.”

They leave. I sit on the bed and breathe a sigh of relief. This place feels like a refuge. A sanctuary. A shelter from my dad.

My dad.

I pull out my phone and hesitantly open my chat with George Jessop. His name no longer read “Papa Bear” anymore. I changed it after he changed. Six voicemails. I brave myself, put it on speaker at half volume, and hit play. 

12:08am  _ Past midnight Rachel. Don’t expect to be able to go out again at all this summer. You need to come home now. _

2:01am  _ Its 2am Rachel. If your ungrateful sorry ass doesn’t come through that door in the next hour don’t expect it to be open for you ever again.  _

2:35am  _ Its 2:30. I know you’re getting these. Where the fuck are you? Come home. I don’t care if you have to walk.  _

I can hear him getting more and more messed up as the hours go on. He begins to deteriorate into raging anger and delirium. 

3:00am  _ Rachel Eileen, you better fucking believe you're in trouble. The later you stay out, the father you push it, the worse it’s gonna be. Get home. Come home-DAVID! SHUT THE FUCK UP! Anyway. Get home. You’ve got chores to do. _

4:55am  _ You BITCH! You stupid WHORE! I tore apart your fucking room and you know what I found? Plastic bag with a bunch of white stuff in it. You think I’m an idiot? And Fucking NEEDLES. Who are you? You aren’t my daughter anymore, Rachel Eileen! I don’t wanna see your sorry ungrateful- _

Joseph’s hand is on my phone. I jump and look up at him. I didn’t know he was there. I didn’t know he was listening. He towers above me. I thought I was alone. I’m shocked to see him standing there. 

“I-I-I-I- didn’t know you were-”

“Shhhh,” he hushes. 

He takes the device between his fingers, slipping it out of my hand. He checks the screen. 

“Hey, give it back!” I reach for it.

He holds it high above me, away from my grasp. When I stop reaching he examines it again.

“What are you doing?” I swallow hard. “That’s private.”

Slowly, he turns to me, his body square with mine. He grabs my chin ever so gently and looks me straight in the eye. 

“Your father isn’t good to you, is he?” He asks. 

Joseph’s not wrong. “He’s not,” I admit.

“Does he hurt you?” Joseph asks.

I nod.

He gets down on my level, kneeling before me and holding my shoulders. He’s quiet for a beat and then-

“Well he is not going to hurt you anymore.” He tells me. “But messages like these...they are hurtful. In order to truly be safe from him, Rachel, you have to eliminate all sources of contact with him.”

“But-”

He holds a finger to my lips. 

“You won’t be needing this device anymore.” He puts my phone in his pocket.

"Joseph I  _do_ need it!" 

"What for?" He asks. "Hm? So they can contact you and torment you further?"

“But what if-”

“Shhh,” he soothes again, holding both of my hands. “Rachel, listen. This place… it isn’t a vacation. It’s a way of life. Your dad, your friends...there is nothing they can give you that we cannot. Keeping in touch with them will only make you more vulnerable to their manipulation, to their toxicity. You don’t want that,” he caresses my cheek, “do you?”

It's not easy to let go of my phone or to think about life without it. But his hand is cool and his voice is soothing. He’s right about my dad. George Jessop is a broken man who lately has done nothing but hurt me. He’s not the father I remember from birthday parties and Christmas Eves, not the man I ran to with open arms when he opened the door as he arrived home from work. George Jessop is a twisted man. George Jessop is not my father anymore. 

Joseph is. 

Which must mean he knows what’s best for me. 

“No,” I say, leaning into his touch.

He kisses my forehead. The weight of the world rests in that kiss. A heavy reminder of the one that came before it, the one I can still feel on my hand. 

We shouldn’t be alone together. Something’s bound to happen if we’re alone together. 

“I’m going to change.” I whisper, hoping he will take it as his cue to leave. 

He nods, rising.  “I’ll see you soon.”

“You will.” I say as he shuts my door.

* * *

Six girls, one around my age, the rest a bit younger, and Megan all sit in a circle in front of the steps in the congregation hall. Joseph sits in a chair off to the right, observing the group. I enter timidly and find an open place. 

“Welcome back, sisters,” Megan greets. “We have a new believer with us. Rachel, would you tell us a bit about yourself?”

I hate this. It’s like being the new kid at school or summer camp. I’m irked as I relive awkward memories of giggles and points at my baggy clothes, bumpy skin, and new boobs. 

“Um,” I say with as much awkwardness as my seventh grade self, “I’m Rachel and...um...I’m seventeen.”

I immediately look to Joseph for approval. His engaged expression urges me to continue. Like that of a parent eager to see their child succeed.  But we both know it’s more than that. Like he said during dinner last night, he’d like to know me.

“I, um…” I search, wishing the others were gone so I could talk to him alone. “I live, well, I used to live, on the far east side of the county...not too far from here, actually. I came to a sermon last night because my friend was interested in going and asked that I go with her, so...I did. And now I’m here. And she isn’t, obviously.” The awkward silence continues. What more do they want? I tack something on at the end.“Fun fact: my favorite animal is a rabbit. The kind with the floppy ears, but y’know...whatever.”

The girls giggle, but its not malicious like I thought it would be. I sigh in relief. They seem genuinely nice. We all wear the same uniform white dress, but apart from that there’s not a feature we share. Some are round, some very thin, some dark skinned, some white, some a mixture of many things, put together from odds and ends. All of us are different. And I’m sure all of us are outcasts. 

“Thank you for sharing, Rachel.” Megan remarks.

It takes every bone in my body not to cringe. She’s unbearably  _ nice _ . Too nice to be genuine.  _ Thank you for sharing, Rachel _ . Shut up. As if my feeble self introduction needed any thanks at all.

Meghan addresses the group. Though I don’t like her I know I ought to show her some respect by giving her my attention anyway. “Listen. All of you. This Project is a good place. It will protect you. It will save you. It will see to your every need so long as you are able to contribute to its growth and sustenance. No one will ask you to perform a task you don’t have the skills for. But you will be asked to make your best attempt to fulfill the work assigned to you. Understood?”

I watch Joseph deliver a slow, pleased nod.

The sisters in the circle repeat, “Understood.”

“Now then,” Megan continues, “I’d like to go around the circle and ask that each of you tell us something you are good at, something that you enjoy doing or something you do effectively. Lily, we will start with you.”

With no hesitation Lily answers, “I sew. I can follow any pattern you give me if I have the right materials.”

Megan smiles. “Excellent. Margot?”

“I know my way around a gun.”

Megan sighs. “If that’s the case you ought to be with Jacob in the north.”

Margot swallows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I was just brought here-”

Lily juts in. “But Sister Megan, Margot has the loveliest voice-”

“We will discuss this matter later.” Megan ends the discourse abruptly. “Jane?”

“Cooking, mam.”

It’s my turn. I don’t know what to say.

“How about you, Rachel?” Megan asks, shifting back to that vulgarly sweet tone. “What are you good at?”

I shake my head. I hope she doesn’t once again force me into talking about myself and then  _ thank _ me for it. 

“There’s got to be something,” she coaxes. “What makes you happy?”

I can’t think of anything. Why can’t I think of anything?

Somewhere from the back of my mind a memory flashes before me, of my mother and I sitting in the kitchen putting strawberry frosting on fluffy white cupcakes. I was happy that day. 

“I like cake.” I say flatly, hoping it suffices.

Megan chuckles. “Are you a good baker?”

I remember the time I brought my mother the container of salt instead of sugar and the pie was inedible.

“No.” I say.

“Well,” Megan sighs, keeping her control and her patience, “There’s got to be something. Dig deeper, Rachel. What are you good at?”

I close my eyes and I try to think. The first thought that comes to mind is the way I would hold in my tears and my sobs until my father finished beating me. I am good at staying quiet.

Megan annoyingly fishes through my mind like it were a messy sock drawer. “It can be anything, really. It can be something...unusual.”

Joseph leans in and observes me intently, awaiting a response. 

I try to remember. I try to think. But only bad memories come back.

Every night. For God’s sake it really was every night. My father would work in his makeshift lab, pulverizing plants, drying them, soaking them in different extractors, blending them, sniffing them, smoking them, tasting them, tossing them and throwing them at my brother. Poor David. He doesn’t know any better. He’s supposed to be the person my father is trying to help but he’s the guinea pig instead. He has no say in what my father forces into his body. The first fight would always be getting David to try whatever my dad was already messed up on. Then as the poison kicked in the screaming would start. The violence. Punches swung from both sides, my father still at a clear advantage. Violent fits of fear and rage. David kept swearing he could see the devil in the mirror. So one night my father threw a knife at it, “pierced the devil’s heart” and shattered the whole thing. The next morning he forced me pick up the bits of broken glass with my bare hands. He told me to do it faster. I did. And I cut myself so bad that all the little shards were stained red. When that still wasn’t fast enough he stepped on my head and pressed my face into them. Oh the pain. Oh God the pain. When I finally finished clearing up I went into my bedroom and picked off the little bits that were still stuck in my face. I left the blood there. I went downstairs, looked my father in the eye and asked him if I could go to the Emergency Room to get my cuts looked at. And he struck me hard across the face. He didn’t stop there. I made my body like a sack of potatoes on the floor and let him finish his fit. I didn’t move for the rest of the day. I laid there, cheeks streaked with blood and tears and asked God to take me then and there. At least then I could see Mom again. 

I never told anyone. I never called the police. I skipped school that whole week and never offered anyone an explanation.

Thinking of all this I’m glad Joseph took my phone away.

“I’m great at keeping my mouth shut,” I state with a numbness so potent it softens the whole room. I look at Joseph. I can tell that he understands. I can just tell. We share a moment of mutual sympathy. Tragedy brought us here. Tragedy has loomed over us our whole lives like the opposite of a guardian angel. If only I could have fought that beast. If only I could have asked someone to fight that beast for me. I wonder if Joseph is still fighting that beast and if perhaps we met so we could fight it together. 

Finally, out of nowhere, it hits me. 

“I am good at following orders.” I say. Then, directly to Joseph, as if I were adding a clause to our invisible contract, “And I’m good at keeping secrets.”


	5. His Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel decides to stay with the Project for good and takes on the role of Faith Seed. Her relationship with Joseph crosses a line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fellas. The moment you've all (well most of you...maybe one or two of you? Just me? Okay fine.) have been waiting for lies within this chapter ;)
> 
> Fair warning: this chapter gets more sexually explicit than the previous chapters. I would not call it smut by any means; it still leaves plenty to the imagination, but just so everyone is aware. I really wanted to keep it plot/character driven and tasteful (yet still spicy), and after a couple of beta readers feedback I think I was successful.
> 
> Lemme just say: this chapter was hard to write. It was hard on me personally, emotionally, time-wise, stress wise, etc. I always put a lot of time into my work but this chapter in particular really hit home and uh...yeah. 
> 
> Final note I made a playlist and a pinterest board (which I collaborated w/ @your_taxidermy on) for this fic if anyone feels like checking those out, feel free!  
> Playlist: https://8tracks.com/stinatinde/his-eyes-beg-for-more-of-that-sour-taste  
> Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/ltcherrybaby/the-poison-and-the-antidote-joseph-seed-x-faith-se/
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thanks for being an awesome audience!
> 
> Comments/kudos are ALWAYS appreciated!!

The sun is bright. The air is warm and cheerful. June bugs make their graceless flight across the fields and the flowers. It’s a perfect summer afternoon. By the fountain outside the convent, I sit, soaking in the light. 

Peaceful, lazy Sundays like today are rare. There is plenty of busy work to be done in the convent. We spend our time reading, praying, gardening, knitting, that sort of thing. I don’t mind it. It’s helped me keep my mind off the withdrawals. 

The moist earth is cool beneath my toes, but the long skirt I wear traps the heat around my legs. I decide to roll it up, all the way up to my thighs. The breeze cools the sweaty skin. I smile when I notice my bruises have faded away.  

Off to my right, the younger girls dance about in a circle, singing cheerfully, chasing butterflies. In a rocking chair on the porch, Megan sits in the shade. She’s embroidering something. Her eyes dart up occasionally toward the girls, ensuring they aren’t making mischief. She glances over at me.

“Cover up, Rachel.” She commands.

I roll my eyes, “It’s hot out.”

She pauses to finish a stitch. “You look like a harlot.”

I can’t help but laugh at her archaic statement. It’s not the first I’ve heard out of her in the three weeks that I have been here, but it is arguably one of the worst.

“It’s hot out!” I repeat. “And the sun feels good. You ought to try it.” 

I know she’s not up for the challenge. I doubt her legs have seen the sun in years. 

“What if a man comes along?” She questions. “And sees you so...exposed. You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

She glares.

“Rachel, what if The Father saw you like this? Would you not be embarrassed out of your mind?”

I grin at the thought. Joseph has made it a habit to stop by as often as he can. He’s got this lofty excuse that “it’s important his young, new followers are in his presence often,” so that they build trust in him. But I know he comes to see me. I know because he always asks how I’m doing. And Megan always makes up reasons why he and I can’t see each other. “She’s very tired, Father. She was up too late reading” I hate reading. “She’s practicing her song with the girls, Father, now really isn’t a good time.” “I would love to hear it.” “They aren’t ready. They’ve only just begun.” The girls rarely include me in their musical efforts. “She’s not feeling well, Father. She’s got one of those headaches again.” “Let me see her anyway.” “Oh but she needs her rest. It’ll do her good not to be disturbed.” Seeing him would make any pain more bearable. So he started coming at odd times, so Megan couldn’t make any more excuses. He won’t even ask her anymore. He just pops in.

The other girls are nervous around him. They don’t get giddy like I get. I think it’s because they know I’m his favorite.

“I wouldn’t mind.” I say to Megan with defiance. “God made me this way.”

“God made you pretty. You decide how you use His gift.”

“God made me naked.”

“Rachel!”

She really is too easy to wind up. “He made you naked, too.” I say.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” She scolds.

I look down at my long, pretty legs, flicking my toes in the mud. “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of.”

She huffs at me. “Well if that’s so, just wait until The Father sees you. He will be ashamed of you.”

He may be a preacher. He may be a man of God. But, “He’s a man, Megan.”

“And you’re a child!”

“At least I’m not an old maid.” 

That came out more cruel than I was expecting it to. Megan opens her mouth to speak, shuts it, and shakes her head. There’s injury in her deep brown eyes. 

My dress is still pulled up high when I hear footsteps around the corner. Speak of the devil, it’s Joseph.

He’s a vision in this light. Summertime becomes him. Something about the colors that surround us and the look on his face. White shirt tucked in, dark jeans, wide belt. He stands meditatively, face toward the light like a sunflower, eyes shut. He does not smile. When he breathes he seems to be filling up his lungs with all the energy the earth has to offer. It clears his mind. He opens his eyes and looks off into the horizon, as if he were reaching for something in the distant future or the far away past.

Megan sees him too. She looks at me as a final warning and motions at me to pull my dress down. I ignore her. 

“What are you thinking about?” I ask Joseph.

He turns to face me. I was right. Megan was wrong. He likes what he sees.

“You, as a matter of fact.” He says.

I can’t help but grin as he approaches. He sits beside me. Right beside me. I glance at Megan. She’s horrified. Absolutely horrified. It’s so funny. But there’s nothing she can say about it now. 

“And why aren’t you frolicking about with the others?” He asks with a tease.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know.”

“They’re missing out on great company.” He says. It’s his way of telling me he likes spending time with me. In the time I’ve known him I’ve come to understand that much. 

I catch him stealing glances at my legs. It takes me a minute to decide how to respond. I can almost hear Tracey scolding me in the back of my head: _Don’t flirt. You’re dangerous when you flirt._ But why should I care about her advice anymore? If I took her advice I wouldn’t be here. 

I want to. Oh I do so want to. Just to see his reaction.

I look up at him and bat my eyelashes. “I’d much rather talk to you.” 

He smirks in amusement. “Got something in your eye?” He asks. But his eyes tell a completely different story. They seem to say _I saw that. You’re looking for trouble, aren’t you?_

I’m not the only one. He’s looking for some too.

I dig deeper. “Oh no. Rather bright out today is all.”

He takes off his glasses and hands them to me. I giggle.

“Try them on.”

He watches me intently as I place the yellow shades on my face and slide them up the bridge of my nose. I pose, earning a chuckle out of him.

“They don’t help at all.” I criticize playfully, not that I really needed them in the first place. “Why do you wear them?”

“Fashion statement.”

I burst out laughing. “Are you for real?”

“They were a gift.”

I’ve kept them on despite their utter uselessness. 

“They suit you.” He compliments.

I hand them back to him. “Much better on you.”

“Pretty girls like you can pull anything off.”

Funny how skin makes men talk. 

“Speaking is which…” he says softly, perhaps a bit nervously,  “I have a surprise for you.” 

“Oh?” I smile wider, “I like surprises.”

He stands and extends his hand, “Come with  me.”

I take it. He stops a moment, looks back at angry old Megan, and sighs. “I’m just taking Rachel for a walk, Megan.”

“Not my business, Father.” She says bitterly, looking at me like I’m an absolute slut. “You do what you want with her.” 

At least he wants me, you angry old bitch. It’s my hand he’s holding, not yours. It’s me he comes to visit, not you.

We walk. I like holding his hand. When we arrive at my room in the convent, Joseph tells me to close my eyes. I obey willingly. He opens the door, places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me in. 

“Open.”

I open my eyes. Laid out on my bed is a gorgeous white dress, with a high neckline and long sleeves, covered in floral lace. It is cinched in at the waist with a silk bow. The skirt is long and full. I imagine waltzing about in it like a princess.

A wedding gown? Or a confirmation dress? An invitation, or a ball and chain? A gift or an order? I don’t know. But I know that it is the loveliest gift I’ve ever been given and the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.

I turn around to look up at him. Questions bounce around in my head like a swarm of flies. I feel like I’ve known those blue eyes forever, but I don’t know what to call him now. I don’t know what his gesture means, how I should take it. Am I a bride? Or am I a sister? Or something else entirely?

“I don’t know what to say,” I move toward the gown. I sit beside it on the bed, gently lifting it to admire its perfect stitching, “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m happy you like it.”

“I’m very grateful.”

He sits next to me on the bed. Slowly, gently, almost as if he were nervous about taking the action, he begins to stroke my hair. His touch sends chills down my neck and shoulders. I enjoy the sensation. I’ve never been to the ocean, but I imagine this is the closest I’ll ever get to the delicate caress of seafoam as it curls over sandy toes. The same kind of soothing. The same kind of bliss. I lean back into his touch. He rests his chin on my head and sighs. 

We sit quietly like this, listening to the sounds of summer and the ticking clock. He pulls me closer to him with his free arm. I can hear his heartbeat. Questions tremor through my mind. I’m afraid to ask him what his gift means. I let ideas float in and out of my consciousness yet I know not what to make of them. I cannot connect the dots.  

“Will you stay here, Rachel?” He finally asks.

I turn and look up at him, our faces very close. “What do you mean?”

He does not answer right away. He moves stray strands of hair out of my face and chooses his words very carefully. “Will you be a part of this? Will you be a part of us? Permanently.”

My questions are still unanswered. “In what way?”

He brings my forehead to touch his. Just like that first day in the chapel at the ranch. We feel so close, so intimate. Yet still, it’s intangible. It’s uncharted territory for me. And in our situation, as we grow closer, it’s even harder to define. 

He speaks in that low, rich voice I so adore, the voice that I could listen to all day. “When I think of the end that this world is coming to…when I picture all of the suffering, all of the gruesome deaths…Rachel I can’t bear the thought of you being within those numbers. I want you to be saved. More than saved. I…” He searches again. “Will you become part of my family? Will you shed your identity and be born anew?”

I imagine waking up not as Rachel, but as someone better than Rachel. More beautiful. More wise. I imagine waking up with a scar-free body, with an undamaged mind and a pure soul. What if my life could be more than waiting for my death? Since I’ve joined the Project it has been just that. And if I accept his offer I’m sure that I will continue to find my purpose. Because of him I’ve been sleeping soundly. Because of him I have a reason to wake up in the morning. 

I know he’s the reason.

Whether I want to admit it or not, he’s been the reason since day one. I decide that it doesn’t matter to me who I am to him, or what I do for him. I owe him my life for the life he’s given me. That’s the truth.

“I’ll do anything.” I tell him, taking his hand. “For you. Whatever you need. Whatever you ask of me. I’ll do it.”

He smiles. “That makes me very happy.”

A moment. It feels like the deal is signed, until--

“But what about you?” He asks. “Is this what you want?”

Just being asked that question is enough for me to make up my mind. I scribble my name down on that line. 

I squeeze his hand. “Yes. I am happy too.”

Our foreheads touch again. This time, our noses do too. So close. A yearning pulls at me inside. A yearning for something that I don’t understand, a feeling I’ve never felt. It is like he is withholding something from me that I never knew I needed, dangling it right in front of my face just close enough that I can smell it and starve for a taste.

“I’m going to go.” He whispers.“I’m going to go. I want you to put that dress on. When you come out, you are no longer Rachel. You have never been Rachel. You are Faith. And from that moment on you will always be Faith. My Faith.”

His Faith. _His_. I welcome the title. It’s like I’m next in line for the throne. I don’t know my duties yet but I know I’ll be far more faithful than the last Faith. 

I wonder if he spoke to her in this way? Did he make her feel special? Did he shelter her as he’s sheltered me? 

She’s an ungrateful bitch if he did. When I recall her overbearing, forced kindness and fake smile I don’t think that she wanted to be here at all. I think she was only in it for John, which is why she failed. Once that side of her came out I don’t think I could see Joseph wanting a person like her to be saved. Maybe if he did she’d still be here.

Fate overtakes desire and I just know that my life is about to begin and will eventually end all because of this man. For this man and his purpose. Instinct tells me in a gut-wrenching whisper that I will never leave his side. And that I have no say in the matter whatsoever. I’ve just sold my soul to this. 

I kiss his cheek, putting my lips very close to his ear. 

“Anything for you.” I’m frightened by the blend of innocence and seduction that drips off of my whisper. I didn’t think I had it in me. 

As I slowly pull away from him, desire fills his eyes. But it’s full of turmoil. Wound tightly like a spring. Suppressed and waiting to be set free.

I’m half expecting him to kiss me. I could go after what I want, lean in, and kiss him first. I want to. I could. I ought to. 

But he calls the shots. He makes the decisions. This thing, whatever it is, moves at a pace that he controls. I stay still, waiting, hoping, wanting. 

His face gets close to mine. My heart flutters in anticipation. 

More daring than before yet not quite daring enough, he places a soft peck on the bridge of my nose.

“I will see you tonight.” He says, rising and walking out.

My heart continues to beat at its flighty pace. So close. So so close. When the door shuts I begin to strip. The air in the room raises goosebumps all over my bare body. I slide my fingers along my sides, over my waist and hips. I imagine his hands upon me, cool and barely there, like the wind. I try to shake the thought away. But I can’t. I know I shouldn’t want him, but I do. I want him terribly. The possession in his voice drives me crazy. I shiver at every slight touch. Just the other day Megan made us all write down “Lust is a sin” fifty times on paper in our neatest writing. She made us write it until our hands cramped and we all believed it was true for there was no other thought we could think by the end. That whole evening my brain chanted it, pounded it in my skull like a drum in 4/4 time. One, two, three, four. Lust, is, a, sin. Lust, is, a, sin. Lust, two, three, sin. Lust, two, three, sin. I shouldn’t want him. It’s wrong for me to want him. He’s so good. He wants everyone to be righteous. He’d want that for me too. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe it’s all been in my head. What if I thought very touch and every gesture meant more than what they were meant to mean? Can instinct lie? Can feelings lie?  I don’t want them to. If I had my way feelings would tell the truth exactly like it is. But I know from experience that is not the case. We must always wait for proof. Wait for words. Wait for action. Wait for a kiss. 

* * *

 

That night, I lurk outside the congregation hall, awaiting, as I was told, for my cue to enter. I swish about anxiously in the dress that Joseph gave me. It’s so pretty. It makes me feel pretty. Megan is with me. She’s tense. She doesn’t even look at me. An air of jealously looms around her. She holds her head high for duty’s sake, but the injury in her eyes is still there. 

“That dress is a bit loose on you.” She remarks, popping my joy balloon.

I swallow. The dress was more than a little loose. “I don’t need you to remind me that I’m skinny.”

“I suppose you’ll fill out eventually. You are _young_ , after all.” She says, as if being young was an insult. I start to wonder if there will ever be anything but resentment between us. 

“Are you jealous of me?” I ask, remembering that feelings often lie. I want her to admit it, just to acknowledge it.

“Oh honey, I’ll never be jealous of you.” She replies condescendingly. 

“You want his attention.” I say, referring to Joseph. I try to sympathize with her. “I get it. I know. But he _chose_ me. Do you have to hate me for a choice that _he_ made?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even hate him.”

A long beat. She pulls together many thoughts, as if she were trying to predict the future. 

“But you will.” She says. “One of these days.”

I shake my head, picturing the man who has been nothing but kind to me. “You’re wrong about that.”

“You’re wrong about him.”

She’s starting to remind me of Tracey. I despise her for it. 

“Well, maybe you don’t know him like I do.” I say. I remember today, how he stroked my hair in silence, that silence filled with an intangible understanding. “You think you do, but you don’t understand. You’ll never understand.”

“I’ve brought three Faiths through these gates.” She tells me. “You’re no different. You’ll expire one day, just like the rest of them. Just you wait.”

Three? Three?! I don’t know who they were. Or who they were to him. But I understand now. It makes too much sense. This name is a title. It’s a position. Perhaps my feelings were lying to me after all. Perhaps I’m really not that special. Perhaps my judgement has been clouded. Perhaps I’ve misinterpreted everything. Perhaps Megan is right. 

“My children,” Joseph begins. “Tonight we celebrate the arrival of a new Faith.”

Megan and I go quiet, listening for our cue as instructed. I don’t feel beautiful anymore. I feel like a ghost once again, about to walk down a hallway haunted by those who came before me. I feel invisible in this shroud of white that covers me from my neck to my toes. 

Joseph continues, his voice echoing through the congregation hall, “A new white rose blooms in our garden.”

For a blooming rose I sure don’t feel very alive. 

“You know her face.” He goes on. “You all saw her about a month ago when she wandered into one of our sermons. She was broken. She was lost. She saw no value in her life and sought to end it. She came to me and I gave her hope. Now she calls this Project her home.”

I’m not really listening. All I can think about are the other girls, who stood here as I am standing here, wearing white, and waiting. 

“What is our cue again?” I ask Megan.

She huffs. “I’ll tap you on the shoulder.”

In talking to her I’ve missed a few lines of Joseph’s speech. “...She’s captivated my heart, as I’m sure she will yours.”

I kill the warmth in my heart. I try to convince myself that he doesn’t mean anything by that. It’s a formality. I’m no different. I’m not beautiful. The last girl was beautiful. As I’m sure was the one before her and the one before her. I’m not special. I’m just filling a role.

“Focus.” Megan reminds.

“She’s our Faith.” Joseph announces. 

Megan taps me on the shoulder. I stand in the doorway of the church. At the opposite end of the aisle, on the other end of the narrow red carpet, is Joseph.

He’s not wearing a shirt.

I know I’m staring. I know my eyes must be bulging out of my head. Good God is he perfect. Perfect in my book. But my head drums again with the 4/4 count of those words. Lust, is, a, sin. I’m not worth sinning over. 

Oh, but how he glows with pride! His eyes are alive at the sight of me. That red string tied between us tightens. I feel it now stronger than before. It is wrapped around my heart, pulled taught like butcher’s thread. It aches. It hurts. The yearning. 

Megan practically pushes my body forward. 

“Don’t get distracted.” She whispers, offering her arm. I take it. 

I begin the slow walk down the aisle and take in the scene. The hall is decked with white ribbons and flowers, the same beautiful bells that were on my nightstand when I arrived. Their potent scent fills the room. John and Jacob lurk like shadows off to the right, watching every step I take. This isn’t their moment. The entire congregation is standing. Once again all eyes are on me. I feel like a bride. But it’s not my wedding day. 

If anything, it’s my birthday. I’m born again as someone new. 

Every step I take feels like a milestone in the crossing of a threshold. Joseph continues to speak. I’m lost in his words and in the scene that surrounds me. “She’s our Faith. She reminds us to be pure of heart. To follow blindly, for true faith is always blind. Not blind as in clouded, but blind to all threats that might shake that faith. We must pray for her. Pray that she be strong so that all of us may be strong through her.”

I reach him. He takes my face in his hands.

“We can all learn from the bloom of youth, from the untainted followers that we are when we are just children, dependent on those who are older, those who are wiser, those with more experience. Faith asks no questions. Faith bears no doubt. Faith is full of trust. Faith gives us all hope. And we must love her.”

He kisses my forehead. We stare into each other’s eyes. The desire to be alone with him is stronger than ever. I wish that the pews and the people and the walls would all crumble around us. Love me. No act sounds more inviting, or feels more needed.

“Love her, for when the dark times come she will be all that we have. Our comfort. Our happiness. Our hope.”

The longing in his eyes is matched by mine. 

His hands trail down my neck, my shoulders, my arms. They reach my hands. He holds them tight.

“Faith. We musn’t ever lose her. We must keep her close. Keep her safe inside our hearts. She will hold us together. Never let her go.”

I squeeze his hands. I know I’ll never let him go. 

* * *

I sit alone inside the congregation hall after the ceremony. Joseph said to wait so, here I am. Waiting.

The church is silent, glowing orange with the flickers of candlelight. Shadows of white flowers crawl up the walls. The room smells divine. There’s something eerily romantic about this place. I wish he’d come back soon. 

A door creaks. I turn. It’s him.

He holds a finger to his lips. I stay quiet. He turns back, checks outside to see if the coast is clear, looks back at me, and beckons me to come over. I tiptoe over to him. 

We sneak out alone in the blue night. The air is alive with the excitement of our rendezvous. The wind blows gently as if to carry our secrets away. I follow his perfect bare back through the trees, across the rugged terrain, toward the river.

He takes off his shoes and wades in.

“Aren’t you coming?”

I laugh at him. “It’s too cold this time of night!”

“You’ll be fine. Come. You’ll see.”

“I don’t want to ruin my new dress!”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Persuaded, I follow him in. It’s very cold. The pebbly riverbed hurts my toes. The long skirt of my dress, made weightless from the water, floats out and upwards away from my legs, as if it were levitating around my body. It’s pure white color is stark against the navy water. Knowing we are completely alone, hidden by the darkness, the stars our only witness, I get close to him for warmth. And because I want to. Privacy like this is precious. I don’t know when we will be together like this again. 

His arms pull me in and hold me tight through my shivers. 

“See? Not so bad.”

“It’s freezing.” My teeth chatter.

He squeezes me, “Relax. You’ll get used to it.”

I cling to his shoulders. “Why are we doing this?” 

“Why not?” He chuckles.

“Because it’s the middle of the night and it’s cold outside,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

“Hush, little dove.” He soothes, “Listen.”

I close my eyes and breathe through the shivers. The river moves peacefully. Crickets charm. His heart beats next to my ear. He smells nice.

“Not so bad?”

“Mmm,” I softly sigh, shutting my eyes to focus solely on the sounds. “It’s lovely.”

“Told you.”

“But why?” I ask again. “Why now?”

His fingers move strands of hair away from my face. “Because. It’s time.”

I giggle. “Time for what?”

He looks me straight in the eye. “Do you trust me?”

I do. But I’m not sure that I should. I nod hesitantly.

“No.” He says. “You must not have any reservations. Do you trust me?”

All he’s done so far has been for my own good. I’m happy here. “Y-Yes.” 

He lowers my body down into the water so gently I feel like an infant in his arms. I take a deep breath, allowing myself to float. My frame is weighed down by the now saturated fabric of my dress. His face is surrounded by stars. But the most beautiful stars are in his eyes. I never thought anyone would look at me like he does. If only time could freeze the way the water does in the winter. I’d send in a cold front in a heartbeat.

He asks me something but I can’t hear him well with my ears underwater.

“What?” I ask

“Are you ready?” He says louder, slower, moving his hand to the back of my head.

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Okay.”

I keep my eyes open as told and hold my breath as he fully submerges my head underwater. Something burns my eyes. The scene before me blurs like an abstract painting. Colors swirl, light blinds. The stars shining around his face look like a halo. It’s so surreal. 

I come up seeing stars, gasping for breath, clinging to him. He pulls me close. 

And kisses me like all girls dream of being kissed. The yearning cries out. His lips are soft and warm. Wrapped safely in his strong arms, he lifts me up like a bride and carries me out of the water, dripping wet. My eyes sting. My vision is still blurry. My head spins. 

But I feel so alive. 

We get back into my room. I hardly recognize the place. Those flowers are everywhere, strewn on the bed, the floor, the windows. Their white petals seem to glow in the moonlight. It’s absolutely beautiful. Too beautiful for words. 

At this point I’m freezing. He kisses me hard. I tremble as he undoes my dress. My fear is colder than the air. I’m not thinking straight. It is all happening so fast. Heavy from the water, my dress falls to the ground in a soggy thud. He runs his fingers down my skeletal spine. I huddle close to him. Warmth. All I want is warmth. And to avoid being seen. My insecurities riot against me.

“Please.” I begin to ask, but my teeth chatter too much to continue the sentence.

Where words fail actions speak. I hold his wrists tightly where they are, stopping him. I’m breathing hard and shaking.

“What?” He asks as if nothing was wrong. My mind is chaos. My eyes won’t focus.

I’ve been taken advantage of more times than I can count. I couldn’t stop those men from doing what they wanted, doing what I didn’t want. And here I was, wanting this, wanting him, yet more scared than I was during any violent, painful time before. More scared and more ashamed. 

“Please,” I say, unable to finish once again.

“Please what?”

There’s no way I can put it all into words. “I’m scared.” It’s all that comes out.

He softens, pulling me into a hug. 

“Scared of what? Scared of me?”

“No,” I mumble.

“Do you trust me?”

There he was with that question again, that question that I could only answer one way.

“Yes.”

His lips touch the top of my head. “I won’t hurt you. I give you my word.”

I shake my head. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

He feasts off that undesirable side of me, the side scarred over by suffering. It’s like he craves it. More of that lemon. He likes it when his lips sting and his tongue gets rough from that sour, bitter juice. Another hungry kiss. A kiss that feels like he is trying to pull my insides out and devour me. In all my ugliness. In all my shame. 

I’ve been dipped in a lake. But here the true cleansing begins.

With care, he lays me on the bed. I am compelled to reach up and pull out the rubber band securing his hair. Thin brown strands fall down around his face. He’s instantly younger. I run my fingers through it, trembling as I do so. I take off his glasses.

He smiles softly. Touches my face. “You’re beautiful.”

I shake my head. “No I’m not.”

There’s something in the air. The aroma of the white bell shaped blooms on my nightstand infiltrate my brain. They’ve always smelled nice, but this? It’s potent. Heavy. Like I could get high off of it. My eyelids droop and my breathing slows. My veins begin to course with euphoria. I’m almost sleepy. I don’t feel like I’m in control of my body.

“You are in my eyes.” He says. “Please let me tell you that.”

He’s not the same man who stands holy and perfect in front of pews full of people. This is a side no one gets to see. I watch him take off his belt slowly and drop it to the floor. He undoes the button on his jeans. 

“I think _you’re_ beautiful.” I admit, blushing.

“Thank you.” He accepts the compliment with grace, unlike I did.

My eyes trail up his body. A long deep scar runs below his left collarbone. Then I notice there are others. Many, in fact, on his sides and his arms. Otherwise the canvas is completely blank. 

I reach up and trace my fingers over them. “How’d these get here?”

He sighs, reveling in my touch. “Every scar has a story. But now’s not the time for that.” He gives me a wicked look and sets to work. 

He knows exactly what he’s doing. His hands roam my skin with purpose, seeking out the spots that turn me on. He’s slow, deliberate, every slight touch giving me just the tiniest taste and filling me with hunger for more. I wish I knew how to do this. I feel limp, like a doll, staring up at him with glassy, empty eyes, with no say in what he does to me, too stunned to say anything at all.

It’s not that I don’t want him. It’s that he knows what he’s doing and I don’t. 

His hands squeeze the supple flesh of my inner thighs, stroking them.

“What were you doing, sitting there like that this afternoon, these beautiful legs exposed for the whole world to see?” He asks.

“I wanted you to see them.” I find myself saying. It’s the truth but it wasn’t a truth I planned on telling.

“You naughty thing. Were you trying to torture me?”

I can hardly speak. “I didn’t know you were-- there.”

“Rachel Eileen, you’re not making any sense.”

“I thought that wasn’t my name anymore.”

“You’re right, darling. You’re right.”

His hands journey upwards towards my chest. He fondles my breasts, increasing intensity. I’m self conscious of them. I always have been. 

I grab his wrists again, but within a moment I let them go, enjoying this more that I thought I would. 

“Were you hoping I’d show up and catch you like that?” He asks. 

I was. “Mhmm.”

“I always knew you’d be a tease.” 

_You look like a harlot._

Megan emerges in my mind out of nowhere. I’m so embarrassed. Ashamed about how I look, about the goosebumps on my skin, how thin I am. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to touch a man. Men have had me, done what they wanted with me. But I’ve never made love to one before. Now I want to and I don’t know how. I’m a doll. A doll whose very soul is determined by those who play with her.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. 

He continues to grope me. “What for?”

“I don’t know...what I’m doing.”

His grip grows greedier. “You mean this is your first time?”

“No…” I say. “I just-mmmnh...”

I’m interrupted when he begins kissing my neck, scavenging the surface with his tongue. I gasp when he finds the spot, the perfect point, working it like an artist. He hears the sounds I make and chuckles through his wet mouth. 

He kisses the spot and stops a moment, whispering breathily into my ear. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” 

This is the opposite of hurt. This is ecstasy. This is heaven. 

You press a certain button and the doll speaks. Not because she wants to. Because you’ve triggered it. My mouth speaks for my body and not for my brain when I beg him not to stop.

He returns to his work. Soft moans escape me. I never knew I could feel this way. My body grows warmer and wetter. I love him for it and hate myself for not knowing what to do in return.

And my vision grows worse. I think I might be hallucinating. I think I might be dreaming. Is it the flowers? It must be. The walls around the room fade away. In their place there is a vast bluegreen sky. The mattress beneath my body becomes a bed of soft, delicate flowers and cushiony moss. When I look up, a tree is growing at rapid speed up from right behind my head. Its branches stretch outwards in all directions, leaves emerging and blossoms blooming in what feels like time-lapse or stop motion. It’s like we are in a different world. A secret garden. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I say, feeling lost. 

“You don’t have to do _anything_. Just let me.”

But I want to. I want to feel like an equal. I feel like a spirit in purgatory trying to force my soul back into my lifeless body. Rachel tries to pry herself back inside the doll lying beneath Joseph Seed. Rachel the inexperienced. Rachel the naive. Rachel who doesn’t know how to love because she’s never been loved. Self conscious, self loathing, selfless Rachel. I don’t see what he sees. I wish it wasn’t like this. I wish it wasn’t happening so fast. 

He’s inside me.

And I’m back inside myself. I’m petrified. I don’t know what to do. I want to stop. To run and hide. I’m so scared. I think of all the times before when it wasn’t like this. I remember how much it hurt. I clench. My body tightens. 

“Stop.” I finally manage to say.

He can’t stand it. “Why?”

“I’m not ready.”

He stares into my soul and reads the picture he sees inside it. 

“I’m not one of those men. I won’t throw you away.”

_You’ll expire one day, just like the rest of them. Just you wait._

Somehow I find the courage to ask. “And what about the girls before me?”

“What girls?”

I sigh. He doesn’t know I know.  
“The others. The others who you gave the same name.”

He stops me with another kiss. He doesn’t answer me. 

“I gave you my word,” he reminds, making me feel as if I’m not keeping my end of the bargain, “I won’t hurt you.”

That had nothing to do with my question. He’s not thinking. I’m not thinking. I’ve seen plenty of men like this before. When they get so worked up they won’t take no for an answer. I want him. I do. 

“Okay.” I give in. 

He takes that as permission enough and keeps going. It gets better. It gets easier. He tends to my neck again, knowing right where to get me, knowing how to get me exactly where he wants me. 

I’m so high. I can’t even think. I don’t know where I am anymore. Where the fuck am I? What is going on with my brain? It’s like I’ve landed on a different planet. I still feel him inside me, but otherwise reality is nowhere to be found. Nothing looks the same. Shadows appear where they shouldn’t be. I feel like I’m living inside a cloud. The sky is gray with lines of light escaping through and kissing the grassy ground. Where am I?

I see him, standing in the distance. I run to him as fast as I can. Safety. Warmth. Protection. God. 

I reach him and go limp in his arms. He holds me up. I’m in a world alone with him. Some place far from everyone. Somewhere high in the clouds. Please let me stay here. I want to stay here forever. He takes my hand. We run together through the tall grass, traveling as fast as hummingbirds. 

We reach the edge of a cliff. A ravine sits far below us, sharp rocks everywhere. I look down and my heart and stomach switch places. I’ve always hated heights.

“Would you die for me?” He asks. 

I’ll die if I jump. I know I’ll die if I jump. I turn and look at him. He’s all I need in this world. “I’d do anything for you.”

“Would you die for me?” He asks again, conviction and seriousness so strong it overwhelms me.

A month ago I wanted to die. Now I want to be here. Alive, happy, safe with him. 

“I spent so long wishing for my life to end. Now that I’m with you...all I want is to stay alive. I’m finally happy. Please don’t make me let that go.”

“This is your test,” he pants, desperation and hunger in his voice, “I’ll have faith in you. If you will have faith in me.”

We look over the cliff’s edge together. I’ll die if I jump. I know I’ll die. 

But he’s right there with me. He’s holding my hand. We look down at that endless abyss, then at each other, then back down again. I think I hear angels singing. Clouds of white soaring around us.

“I have faith in you, Father.”

A gasp, a leap-

And sweet release.


	6. Past and Present

I watch the rise and fall of his chest as he soundly sleeps. Truly at peace. He doesn’t quite snore, but his breathing has a certain texture. His lips are just barely parted. Strands of brown hair strewn across his forehead and around his face. He’s a different person when he sleeps, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off of his shoulders for a few blissful hours. God took his worries away when he shut his eyes. I know when they open again they will be a glass window to the thoughts swirling like a whirlpool inside.

He was a gentle lover.

The gentlest I’ve ever known. For that I am grateful. 

I don’t dare move or make a sound. The cozy old bed we share creaks with every motion. We lie very close; for one person the bed is spacious, but for two there is just enough room. Just enough. 

I am awake with my thoughts running amuck inside my head, spinning like they always do when I’m around him. It’s funny how when the time comes that we lay our heads to rest we are all the same. Power means nothing to a man while he sleeps. Beside me here, in this simple bed, is the body which houses a divine and brilliant messenger, the very heartbeat of this Project. But now, in the early hours of the morning, as the sun is beginning to rise and the crickets are still chirping, he is sleeping. Just like most everyone else. Just like I ought to be but can’t. I look around the room. The white flowers have wilted, their bell-like shape sagging and their soft petals wrinkled and veiny like the skin of an old woman.

I don’t remember falling asleep last night. For all I know I could have been asleep the whole time. Maybe I am asleep right now and all of this is a dream. For a girl of seventeen I’ve still got some imagination left in me. I pinch myself to make sure. 

Its real.

His body stirs a little before his eyelids open slowly. When he sees me, he smiles. Then out of drowsiness shuts his eyes, but keeps the smile there. 

He whispers, “Good morning, angel.”

Angel. Could any word feel more like velvet to my ears? “Good morning.” I coo.

He pulls me on top of him. His chest is warm and comforting. I never want to leave this place. I’ve never felt so adored. We look at each other for a long time, speaking without speaking.

Then he does something that I wasn’t expecting and don’t really understand. He holds his right forearm up, studies it, then studies me. Pleased, he shakes his head in amazed disbelief. “Perfect.” 

“What?” I ask, not quite so sure I heard him. 

He lowers his arm and runs both sets of fingers through my hair. Seeking words, he is silent for a moment. Finally he settles on a statement. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

A sigh. A tinge of pain. A memory. 

“My wife.”

That hits a strange spot. Not quite jealousy. Not quite surprise. Not quite sadness. I guess I never imagined him as a married man. For some reason it just didn’t fit. In the time that I’ve known him he’s always been so occupied with the Project. With saving people. With talking to God. When would he have time for a wife?  Then again, he has time for me.

Oh God. What if she is still around? Have I met her? Have I seen her in passing and simply never known? Why didn’t he ever mention her? What kind of husband was he to ignore her? The idea breaks my heart. 

“Oh,” is all I can say, too stunned to ask, not really wanting to know.

He lets out another sigh. Then, as if to tell me not to worry, he says, “She’s been gone a long time.”

I try to connect the dots. Did she leave him? Was she missing? Could she not handle having a husband with priorities bigger than both of them?

I’m afraid to ask but I know I must know, “Where did she go?”

He avoids my eyes, watching his fingers comb through my hair lovingly. His mouth twitches, trying to say something extremely difficult to say. “She returned to the garden. She passed away.”

I shouldn’t be glad to hear it but I am. The truth that hurts him brings me relief. But God, does he look sad. I stay silent, pitying him.

He continues the story though I can see that it hurts him deeply, “We were pregnant. Our first. We were too young to be having kids. And too young to think twice about it.” He chuckles then looks at me again, the slightest smile emerging below those sad eyes. “She was about your age, actually...as was I.”

I smile a little. That time didn’t seem as far away for him anymore. He looks younger like this, his hair still down, head sinking into the white pillow. Like that part of his past wasn’t twenty years ago, perhaps only half that time.

“I didn’t have any money.” He shakes his head. “Not enough to take care of her, let alone a child. We were doing everything we could to make it work, saving every cent. She couldn’t get rid of it. Georgia law. She didn’t want to, anyway. She couldn’t hurt any creature...even if that creature hurt her. She was easily taken advantage of.” He looks at me. He knows I know what that’s like. Maybe that’s what drew him to me. 

 “Purity comes at a price.” He says, wise as ever. He comes out of the deep truth and continues his story. “I’d do anything I could to protect her. So I did the honorable thing and asked her to marry me. Of course I loved her. There was no question about that. She had faith that God was watching over us. She believed that so strongly that I believed it too. And I had moments when I felt God before, heard his voice, but...because of her, I believed. I trusted. 

“One day, she went out to see a friend. She was about six months along.” He takes a deep breath. I can tell that this is where the story takes a turn for the worst.  “A blue pickup rammed into our old car. Didn’t even stop. She went spiraling. Hit a guardrail…

He takes another deep breath and finds the strength to continue, “She was hurt badly. The ambulance arrived, rushed her to the hospital, but by the time they did she was gone. So they cut her open and saved my little girl. But you know… babies born that early, their lives are so delicate. As vulnerable as any creature could be. And I was all that she had.”

A silence full of what ifs. A slideshow plays before his eyes of that of what was and what might have been. I’m not sure which hurts more. 

“What happened to her?” I ask as gently as I possibly can. 

He’s dead quiet. The sadness leaves his eyes. It’s replaced by a haunting emptiness, a cavernous void, a numbness cold and unfeeling as death itself. 

“I lost her too.”

I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, trying to squeeze life back into those hollow eyes. His breath is low and shaking. 

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. “I’m so so sorry.”

I nuzzle my face in the space between his neck and his shoulders, getting as close as I can, hoping it brings him some feeling of warmth or happiness. 

He presses his lips to the top of my head. “It was a long time ago, sweetheart.”

I can tell. The way he talks about it reveals the scar on his heart. But he still remembers how much it hurt.

“So,” he says, rolling me over so I lie next to him. He lifts up his right arm, showing me a tattoo on his inner forearm of a beautiful woman, flowers surrounding the portrait. Her eyes are hypnotizing with the powerful allure of innocence. She appears in this work of art just as gentle and loving as he described her to be. “I took the money we were saving for the baby and I got this done. Some might think it was a stupid thing to do but...this way... she’s always with me.”

It pains me. I know I’ll never measure up to her. It’s clear that she is the love of his life. There will never be another quite like her. Someone like me would never even come close. “She’s beautiful.” I say. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

How could he say that to me after showing me an image of her? I don’t deserve it. I really don’t. She does. She deserves every possible interpretation of that word. 

I shake my head. “Not like her.”

“You could be twins. Maybe not in this picture of her, but in the picture in my mind… perfect. And you know what?” he says, “You share the same spirit.”

It wasn’t the same. Being the same breed didn’t make us the same person. I shouldn’t be jealous. I shouldn’t wish I was her. I shouldn’t wish I occupied that place in his heart that was solely hers. But I do. I do. I do. 

He must see my sorrow. “I’m sorry.” He says, putting his arm down. “I don’t mean to upset you. I get reminiscent, little dove. That’s all.”

I should be honored just to be a person who reminds him of her. If I could indulge him in that, if I could grant him a small piece of her back, I’m sure it would make him happy. Perhaps little by little he’d love me like he loved her. 

Hearing him share such a personal story makes me want to share one of my own. I look up at him. “I lost my mom. I know it’s not the same thing, but…”

“No. Tell me. I want to know.”

It’s not easy to talk about. I don’t want to remember her lifeless body lying limp on the kitchen floor. I don’t want to remember the bottle of pills she held in her hand, ninety-six tablets where they weren’t supposed to be. In her stomach, tearing away her insides, destroying her. I never knew she was so unhappy. From that moment every memory I have of her was tainted somehow. There were days when she’d smile so wide as she packed our lunches, while we baked Christmas cookies, and when we would show her our report cards. I was just a kid. She seemed so happy. Everyone told me how wonderful it was to see a mother who was so happy all the time. I had no idea how much stress she was under. 

He’s wiping tears from my eyes. “Little dove, please don’t cry.”

“She killed herself.” I say. “And I had no idea. I didn’t see any of the signs. My dad...he was a pharmacist. She was a pill popper. He’d bring stuff home. She’d use it. One night she...I found her the next morning. Lying there. Limp with lifeless eyes.”

He nods, understanding.

“And my father lost his mind after that.” I sigh. “I think he knew it was his fault. For enabling her. He did it because he loved her and couldn’t say no. But I’ll never forget walking in to the kitchen that morning and seeing her dead on the ground.”

“I know what that’s like. I held my daughter as she died.”

I think. Watching someone die and finding someone dead. “It’s not quite the same.” I say. “I never got to tell her I loved her before she went. I found her and it was too late.”

“I didn’t say a thing to my daughter.”

I look at him, puzzled. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “There was nothing I could say. She wouldn’t be able to understand.”

“But she could have felt it.” I tell him.

“All the more reason why I had nothing to say. I just watched God take her soul away.”

How helpless and tragic that must have felt. In a sense both situations were the same, because nothing could be done. Whether they were alive and slowly dying or already dead. There is a point when there is nothing to be done. Nothing to be said, nothing that can be said. They’re already gone. And it isn’t in our hands anymore. Nothing we could do could change it. Their story ends.

We sit in silence, holding each other. I feel Tragedy in the room, that black ghost looming above us, laughing wickedly at the pain in our eyes. 

“How did such a beautiful morning get so sad?” I ask retrospectively.

He laughs. “It was my fault. I started it.”

I crawl back on top of him, pressing my nose against his. “What do you say we start over?”

“Hmm.” He grins. “I think I’d like that.”

I kiss him. It’s the first time I’ve initiated it. And it feels different. It doesn’t feel right. I can feel him restraining. I stop. I think of her. Of his wife. Though she’s long dead and gone I feel like an intruder. This was _her_ place. This was _her_ husband. _Her_ lover. These lips, these hands, these eyes, this body, all belonged to her. 

Feeling like a trespasser I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

I get off of him, settling back into my spot next to him. “I feel like I am taking her place.”

He sighs. “I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, I’m glad you did. Really.” I say. But the truth is, I am not.

“Listen.” He turns to me, caressing my cheek, “I don’t know what I can say to make it any better, other than the fact that it was twenty years ago. She’s gone. But you’re here. I don’t know about you but...I’d rather love a living woman than love a ghost. Her place,” he chokes up a little, “has been empty for a long time. It’s yours now. If you’ll take it.”

I think I love him.

I reach out to touch his face. “Okay.” I say.

“Did you sleep well?”

I grin. “The best I’ve slept in a while.”

He strokes my eyebrow softly.

“I watched you.” He begins. “For ages after. You were like an angel lying there. I kept thinking about how you looked when I first saw you. Scared. Shaking. Hollowed out by pain. Now here you are. So peaceful.”

“I watched you too this morning.” I open up to him the way he opened up to me.

“And what went on in your mind, little dove?”

I grin at the nickname. “How, when you’re up there, in front of all those people listening and watching, you’re so…so strong. You take up the entire room with your power. But here you’re human.”

His brow furrows. “Are you saying I’m not human when I’m up there?”

“No!” I clarify, “You’re just not as...as…I don’t know what. Last night, right now…here…you’re just a man.”

“Hmm.” He mutters.

A moment. He gets out of bed. 

“Are you leaving already?” I ask.

“Yes. I am.”

He’s being short with me. Something isn’t right.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed.

He puts his pants on and secures his belt. Then reaches across me to the nightstand, picking up his hair tie and glasses. He aggressively combs through his hair with his fingers, ripping apart the tangles.

“Let me help you,” I try, sitting up on my knees and reaching for him.

“No.” He holds a hand up to me, preventing me from getting any closer. “I’ve got it.”

He pulls it back taught against his scalp and snaps the elastic around it to make a hasty bun.  He’s not happy. 

He stands and puts his glasses on. 

“Faith?” He begins a question.

“Yes, Joseph?”

He looks down, sighs, then looks back up at me.

“No one can know about this.”

“What?”

“You heard me. No one can know about this.”

I didn’t lie that day when I said I was good at keeping secrets. I am good at keeping secrets-- bad ones. I’m horrible at it when something gives me joy. I’m the girl who will say too much and ruin a birthday surprise. I’m the girl who’d tell someone what was about to happen to them the minute I heard good news was coming their way. But I don’t think I’ve ever had a secret of my own worth sharing, and now that I do, I can’t speak of it. It is bittersweet knowing that no one will ever be able to know of my happiness except for me. A sadness comes over me when I think of Tracey. How we’d look at the stars and plan each other’s weddings. Or she’d listen to me plan mine. I’ve always been more of a romantic than she was. But we would always tell each other every silly little flirtatious thing that happened to us, even when we knew that it would never end up as anything real, because we were the only ones who understood how to enjoy hope without ever really hoping. We had an unwritten, unspoken promise that we would always share our secrets with each other. That’s just what best friends do. I don’t know that I’ll ever speak to her again. Even if I did I’d have to keep last night a secret. Now I miss her. My confidant. My moral compass. My friend. 

Joseph must have seen my sadness develop as I got lost in my thoughts.

“Don’t give me that look.” 

When I look up, the gentle man I knew last night and this morning is gone. His words burn as a warning. His voice implied an ‘or else’ at the end of that statement. He had no need to say it.

Frightened, I try to make light of the issue. “Forgive me, Father.” I smirk seductively, stretching myself out on the bed like a pretty cat.

He doesn’t buy it. His aura remains flared, serious and deadly. 

“No one will know about this,” he commands. “Not one soul outside this room. If they do, if I so much as _think_ I hear a rumor on their lips, you’re done for. Understood?”

I lock my legs together and sit up straight, covering myself with a sheet. I know not the look I am giving him but I hope it isn’t one that will get me in trouble. 

His body tenses further. “Speak when you’re spoken to!”

Confused and defeated I mutter, “Understood.” 

He crosses back to me. The light from behind him makes all his features dark, backlit, more intimidating. I look up at him like a worm awaiting death from a bird. 

But the bird does not bite. Joseph holds my face. He leans down, kisses my forehead slowly, his lips moist and warm, warmer than I’ve ever felt them. 

“Good girl.”

A shiver of discomfort and disgust rolls down my spine. I don’t watch him as he leaves. I don’t understand. What did I do wrong? I listen to his footsteps fade. The room feels more like a cage. I’m so confused. I feel so alone. Like I’ve been abandoned. _Don’t get dramatic, Rachel._ I tell myself. _It’s not a big deal. He has things to do. Leave him alone. Ignore it_.

But it feels like a spider has laid eggs in my brain. Eggs that will hatch into a swarm of new insecurities. Fears. Doubts. And I will be forced to walk on the eggshells the leave behind. I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know what else I will do wrong. 

 _Try to distract yourself_ , something tells me, _Get dressed. Go for a walk. Get some air. Get some space._

I get out of bed. My white lace dress is still a soggy lump on the floor from last night. It’s unwearable in this condition. I will have to find something else. But I have nothing else. 

There has to be something in the dorm where the others sleep.

 _The others_. Shit. These walls are thin. They would have heard everything. Absolutely everything.

I’m still completely naked. I pull the sheet off the bed and wrap it around my body like a towel. I open the door with a creak. The dorm is completely empty. All of the beds are made. None of the girls are anywhere to be seen. Where are they? Were they here last night? Could they _hear_ us? 

“Hello?” I call into the unoccupied room, hoping no one is there.

There is no answer. I walk across to a large dresser and open it. Hanging neatly, one after another is a row of plain white frocks, the kind that I wore up until yesterday. They are all one size, for they are so large and shapeless that it made no difference what size you wore. I take one off its hanger and pull it over my frame, dropping the sheet.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

I jump, spinning around. Megan stands tall above me, nose turned up and a sour look on her face.  

“Megan!” I gasp. “What are you- you’re- um…”

“Here? Yes, I am.” She walks behind me, pulling down the frock at the back to cover my butt.

“Thank you,” I say.

She looks at me and sighs. “Where’s your new dress?”

I am not sure if I am allowed to say. I don’t know how much of last night was supposed to be kept secret. 

“It-um…” I struggle. “In my room. It got...it got wet.”

“From the river?” She asks.

“Y-yes.” I admit.

She walks briskly, full of purpose, toward my bedroom. I trail behind her like a puppy who knocked something over while its owner was out.

When she gets inside, she bends over and lifts the soggy dress up off the floor. “I will have to wash this. Or perhaps you should.”

I make no remark.

Another sigh escapes her. She heads over to the unmade bed and inspects the sheets. 

“I never did think you were a virgin.”

I’m taken aback. At first I don’t know what to say. Then I remember that it’s probably for the better if I play it off as if nothing happened, as if I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Perhaps I am.” I say cockily. “Maybe that’s why the sheets are clean.”

She gives me a dark look, one of an exhausted, disappointed mother who was sick of her daughter’s lies. “You were right. You’re good at following orders.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I continue to try and brush it off, to keep the secret.

“Rachel.” She takes hold of my shoulder with her free hand and looks straight at me. “I know.”

The look in her deep brown eyes say it all. I swallow hard. “You do?”

“Yes. I do. I know. He was with you last night. I know he told you to keep it all a secret.”

I imagine her lurking outside our door all night, hearing the sounds we made and the creak of the bed as we-

“Were you _listening_?” I ask demandingly.

She laughs at me. “What? Goodness, no. I just know how this goes.”

She’s been here so long that I believe her. 

“Sit down. Wait one moment.” She says, leaving with my dress. I do as told and sit on the bed. 

Last night I didn’t even think twice about who was sleeping in the other room. Sex just does that to you. You lose your brain. And the smell of those flowers. The high. The dizziness. I don’t even remember everything. I’m not sure what happened, what was a dream, and what was a delusion.

Megan returns carrying a mug. She hands it to me.

I stare at the murky, greenish blue fluid. “What is this?”

“Just drink it.” She says.

It has a strong unappealing smell. The pungence of weed and the bite of alcohol. My nose tells me not to take a sip.

“Come on.” Megan urges. “You need to drink it quickly. The sooner after intercourse the better.”

The way she says that word. _Intercourse_. It gives me a flashback to sex ed. What the hell is this shit she handed me? Some kind of medieval contraceptive horror juice? 

“I’m not drinking it.” I lift the cup back towards her. 

“You have to.” 

“I’m not drinking it!”

She sighs. “Well I know you’re not on the pill because we don’t allow those here and you would have been caught taking them by now. Do you have an implant? An IUD?”

Who the fuck does she think she is? My gynecologist? 

“No. And don’t ask me these questions!”

“When was your last bleeding?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Your period! When was your last period?”

I shake my head and shrug, trying to remember. It had been a long time. A very long time. Drugs will do that to you. Depression will do that to you. Stress will do that to you. Not eating will do that to you. 

“I don’t know...maybe...two years ago?”

Megan is baffled. “Two _years_ ago?”

I’ve always been bitter about it. The uncertainty. Feeling like I wasn’t “normal” and like I wasn’t a woman. Some nights I’d just pray for the bleeding to start. For the cramps to come. After about four months of hoping and more negative pregnancy tests than I can remember I just gave up. My body doesn’t work properly. I hate it. And I know it’s my fault that it’s the way it is. I don’t take care of it. I hurt it. I punish it. It’ll never go back to how its supposed to be. I wrecked it right as it ripened. 

Megan has no idea what can of worms she’s opened up. 

“If you’re worried I’ll get pregnant, stop worrying.” I tell her, blunt and bitter and biting as ever. “I’m broken. Those parts of me don’t work. I destroyed them.”

She looks so smug standing there, like she has finally found something she can use against me. Something that she has and I do not. Even though she’s twice my age. Good. Let her be pleased. Let her have this leg up on me. 

“Now you know.” I sigh. “I don’t care what you do with the information. Just don’t ask me about it anymore.”

I was expecting her to pity me, but her smug look only grows. 

“Thank you for sharing, Rachel.”


	7. Seventeen Going On Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice big long chapter for those of you who have been patiently waiting <3

I count the hickeys on my breasts and thighs as I brush my hair alone in my bedroom. I stare at every mark hoping that if I stare long enough they will give me validation, make me feel secure, that they will remind me that I’m loved. Every morning I wake up and there’s more of them. They multiply on my body like a disease. Every inch of skin that has been turned that speckly shade of red and purple feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. 

Two weeks together and we’ve already developed a routine. I’m the first to leave after dinner. I walk out of the center of the compound where all the picnic benches are set and into the small apartment reserved for me. I moved into it the day after our first night together. He wanted me closer and he wanted me alone. And I was more than happy to get away from Megan and her snide comments. 

My “apartment” is more like a tiny cabin with only the bare necessities inside. A bed. A bathtub. A sink. And a shelf. It’s noticeably farther off from the church and the main compound than the others. And of course I know why. Makes it easier for him to sneak away. No one can hear the creak of that door or our sighs and our screams from this distance.  

If I feel like it I turn on the hot water and fill the tub. It takes forever to warm, but when it does it’s lovely. I get in and let the water scald my toes as it runs from the pipe. Sometimes I’ll even wash my hair, and sing to myself. I like hearing the way my voice bounces off the walls of the tub and competes with the volume of the running water. It makes me feel like no one can hear me. And of course, at this distance, no one can.

Sometimes Joseph is so eager to get to me that I’m still bathing when he arrives. If that’s the case he sits on the bed and watches. I ask him to tell me all about his day and listen to him vent as I work the soap into suds and scrub my body. He pauses frequently, losing his train of thought as he takes in the sight of me. Sometimes he’ll tell me to keep singing. Once or twice he’ll even join in.

Other nights he takes longer than usual. So I step out, wrap myself in a towel, sit on the bed and brush out my hair. I put a simple nightgown on. If he’s really late I try to come up with the most appealing position for him to find me in. So far his favorite wasn’t even a planned out, but a pose he happened to discover me in after it had grown very late and I had given up on waiting for him. So I read the book, his book, the Project’s own little bible in hopes of falling asleep. I laid on my bed wit one leg bent, the other resting on top of it, my hair cascading down one side as I held the book up to the distance best suited for my eyes. He opened the door and caught his breath. 

Tonight I had taken a bath. Put my nightgown on. Brushed my hair. Thought of all the most attractive ways to lay on a bed (believe me, there are only so many for a girl like me). Took my nightgown off (I figured I might as well save time if he was running this late). And now I am brushing my hair again. Out of nervousness. Out of anxiousness. Out of hope.

It’s cold and dark and the night is growing older. This is the longest I’ve ever waited. I’m so tired. But I don’t want to sleep alone. I hate the quiet. I hate the buzz in my ears from the silence. I hate all the where’s, the what’s, and the why’s. Where is he? What is he doing? Why isn’t he here?

I advert my eyes from my hickey-speckled skin and look out the window. In the distance there is the warm orange glow of a fire, hidden somewhat by trees and the sides of other buildings. Perhaps he’s there. 

Having nothing better to do I stand, setting my hairbrush down. I take one of my lace dresses (I now have four to choose from, though they're all very similar) off the hanger and get dressed again. The high collar is itchy and stiff, but it covers all the marks on my neck. Each dress completely conceals my body from jawline to wrists to toes. The marks disappear under the pure white curtain. To the outsider I am untainted and untouched. But beneath this veil of innocence I am his mistress. The Project’s best-kept secret. I’m a concubine disguised as a nun. They even call me “sister”. 

In a way there is something thrilling about this secret love. But there is nothing worse than wanting to kiss him when everyone is around, to touch him when everyone is watching, to make risky little remarks when I fear someone might hear. We sneak things here and there. A brush in passing. An innocuous and unassuming peck on the cheek or forehead. A slight touch beneath the dining table. But these are so infrequent that I am always kept wondering, and like tonight, waiting.

Every single button done, I leave my cabin and make the walk toward the fire. The compound feels like a ghost town this time of night, our simple community all asleep.  

Jacob sits on a log beside the flame, gazing into it. The heat and smoke must irritate his eyes. Despite this he blinks very seldom, almost as if he enjoys the burn. A hide of some sort of animal sits in his fingers. He pulls the skin taut in different directions, stretching it. He checks on his work, then back on the fire, occupied by the dark beauty of both. 

I’ve always been a bit afraid of him since day one. He isn’t around too much. He lurks at a sermon or two. Joseph tells me he likes being alone, that he’s got his own place up north in the woods where he trains hunters for the Project. Teaches them survival skills, self defense...that sort of thing. Joseph doesn’t bother to tell me the details. 

A branch snaps below my feet. Jacob pauses. Instantaneously he’s full of focus and awareness, like a wild animal weary of hunters. 

He sees me and relaxes, knowing it was not a man with a rifle that approached but a white lamb who was missing her shepherd.

“What’re you doing up this late, Faith?” He returns to pulling the hide. 

I can’t tell him the whole truth so half has to do. “I...I can’t sleep.”

He doesn’t look up from his work. “Me neither.” He says the words as if to get them over with. The animal skin between his fingers is much more important at the moment. “Sit down.”

Reluctant at first, I carefully step over the dirt and the stray branches and maneuver my way to the spot beside him. I watch his meaty hands at work, glossy from the oil he was using on the hide. It smells like livestock. He smells like man. 

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Stretchin’ the hide.” He replies. “What’s it look like?”

Was that supposed to be snarky? I’m not sure.

“A rabbit?” I ask.

He chuckles. “You think rabbits come in this shade of red? Nope. Fox. If you wanna see rabbits, I’ve got plenty up in the north. Put a bunch of em all together and they make great blankets.”

“Oh.” I’m not really listening to him. All I can think about, all I can wonder and worry about is Joseph. Where is he? Why hasn't he come to me?

Jacob looks up from his work to see me lost in thought. “Got somethin’ on your mind?”

I shrug. “It’s...It’s nothing.”

“You got one of those nervous looks in your eyes.”

He’s more socially aware than I thought he was. 

“You don’t have to tell me nothin’,” he says, “ I can see it, is all.”

That was a relief. “Thank you,” I sigh.

“Anytime.”

He’s built like an ox with the ferocity of a tiger on the prowl. But for some reason he treats me like a human being. 

“May I ask you something,” I begin, then adding in a conventional term of respect, “brother?”

Jacob’s flame red beard moves as he speaks, “Sure.”

“Why are you nice to me?”

His motions pause for a moment, like a machine struggling to follow through with a command, some sort of glitch, an error, an illegible code. 

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead he replies in a way that invalidates the question. “Joseph is nice to you.”

Not always. Not lately. “Most of the time.”

“Don’t talk like that. He adores you, kid.”

“Really?” I hope I don’t sound too excited. I needed to hear this from someone. Self-reassurance only goes so far.

Jacob’s got the same look I saw in the rear view mirror the time he dropped me off at the convent, that knowledge of something he shouldn’t be privy to. The look someone has when they’ve seen something and think they know the truth of it but won’t speak up about it. “Yeah.” He says gruffly, if a tad bitterly. “He sure does.”

The crickets and the crackle of the fire fill our silence. I want to ask where Joseph is but I do not want it to seem like I care too much. “Where…” I hesitate, “where is he…?”

“Back at the convent.” He answers abruptly. “Some issue with Megan or one of the girls. One of the followers drove him over.”

It’s not comforting at all to know that he’s back there. Back where _she_ is. I know she’s much older. I know she’s rigid and stern and insufferable. I know she’s got nothing on me. But why is he there? What was so important that he had to head over late at night?

“Oh.” I say. “He didn’t tell me.”

Jacob chews the inside of his cheek. “Well..why would he? Don’t you go to bed a little early?”

Every night. I am always the first to leave the table. If Jacob assumes I’m just getting beauty sleep, Joseph and I must be doing a fairly good job at hiding our affair.

Unless of course Jacob is just saying that. And he’s just waiting for me to screw up.

“No reason.” I cover. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’m tired.”

“John still giving you a hard time?” Jacob asks. I’m grateful he changed the subject but would much rather not talk about John. Every look he gives me is a death stare. He hates seeing me dressed in white, despises referring to me as Faith, and loathes the fact that I am still here. I feel it in every breath he takes. He and Megan sure would make a great team.

“John absolutely hates me.” I say.

Jacob sighs. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s jealous.”

That makes no sense. “Of what?” I ask.

“You.”

I don’t understand. “Why?”

“Thing you gotta understand about John: he craves attention.” Jacob tells me. “He needs it. You ever known a man to get pissy when he’s hungry? That’s John when he’s not being paid enough attention.”

“But the kind of attention I receive and the kind of attention he receives-”

“Doesn’t matter. The folks around here are liking you more and more and it doesn’t help that Joseph’s been giving you a lot of his time.”

 He stops, thinks for a moment. “Do you have any siblings? And no, that’s not a trick question. I’m not gonna pull a knife on you if you don’t say this is the only family you have or some other bullshit like that,” he chuckles, “Your _real_ family. Any?”

It’s a relief to be able to speak candidly. “One younger brother.”

He tries to craft an example. “You know how you pick on him when things aren’t going good? When you feel like he gets all the attention? You know how it is when he does one small thing wrong and suddenly you’re yelling at him like he’s the biggest fucking moron on the planet and you wish he’d never been born? It’s not ‘cause he is. It’s ‘cause you’re mad. ‘Cause you’re having a bad day. Doesn’t mean you don’t love ‘em.”

Despite where he is going I can’t relate to the situation. “My brother is severely autistic.” I tell him.

He swallows hard. “Oh.” He’s embarrassed. “So maybe not quite like that. But if you can imagine...that’s how we always were. Of course, y’know, John was the baby. I was eight when he popped out almost from nowhere. Still not really sure about the parentage.” He laughs. “We’d fool around, pick on each other. Just what he gets for being born last. He was the baby. But I love them. They’re my brothers. And now, here you are. Our baby sister. Finally someone for John to pick on. Now I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m saying it’s what kids do.”

I really don’t think Jacob understands. John bullies me. I’d like to think that people would grow out of things like this at some point. I’m sure in most cases they do, but for some reason John still has it pent up inside him. That childish streak.

“How old is he anyway?” I ask before thinking.

Jacob crunches numbers in his head for a moment. “Thirty? Shit. Nah. He can’t be that old already. Twenty eight, twenty nine ish. How old are you?” 

His straightforward zero-bullshit attitude makes me feel better that I asked. “Seventeen,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows. “You really are a baby.”

“I am not!” My objection only showcases my youth further. “How old are _you_?”

“Forty.”

I look at his face, bumpy and blistered and black under the eyes, shrapnel stuck into his cheeks. In a strange way his scars made him ageless. Normally I'd look for wrinkles to assess someone's age. But he had few, save for those on his forehead and a couple around the eyes. I shake my head, “You don’t look it.”

“I wouldn’t care if I did.” He says apathetically. “Appearances stopped mattering to me a long, long time ago.”

I look at the burn marks on his arms, the calluses on his hard, meaty hands, the white scars, the dry elbows. I think it best not to inquire further on the subject. 

He sighs deeply. “You’re really young. You know that?”

“I guess.”

“A little too young.” He sighs. 

“I’ve grown up a lot in the last year.”

He sighs again, “I know. I know you think you have. I thought I did too when I was your age. There were plenty of moments in my life so far when I’ve thought I’ve figured it all out. But that’s not the case. That’s never the case.”

He’s probably right. 

“My brother…” he struggles, “Joseph— the two of you haven’t, you know…?”

“What?”

“Fucked?”

So he did suspect something. It sounds so awful when he says it like that. Makes me feel like a whore. I don’t want to believe that’s all that I am. I remind Joseph of his wife. There are moments when we are together and I know, I just _know_ that he cares. But I remember his warning the morning after our first night. _No one can know about this_. No one. That had to include Jacob.

“No.” I lie. 

He nods, but I can’t quite tell if he believes me. “Good. That’s good.”

He’s been so honest with me. I feel awful for not telling the truth. But I have a duty to Joseph. I need to keep reminding myself of that. He got me here. He saved me. I owe him my life for what he’s done. 

“As far as why I’m nice to you… I don’t know,” Jacob says, now that he’s had time to think about it, “I guess…” he searches for words, “I guess you’ve been through enough already. You aren’t spoiled like most. You don’t need pain to humble you. You’re already humble. I found that out when you tried to refuse my chair, remember? Or am I assuming too much?”

I’m stunned by his words, “You’re not wrong. But I don’t like exaggerating what I’ve been through. I’m not one to overstate my troubles.”

I barely detect a smile beneath his bushy beard. It is so slight I am not even sure if it is really there.

“I’m like you in that way.” He says.

We’re quiet after that. It’s nice to feel like I’ve found a friend. Someone to talk to without walking over eggshells. But I’m sleepy. I yawn against my will.

“You should probably go to sleep.” He suggests. “I don’t know if or when he will be back. He keeps you up at night even when he ain’t around, huh?”

What’s that supposed to mean? “He… he’s got a way about him.” I say.

“C’mon, kid. I see how you look at him.”

There it was. 

I let out one of those disappointed almost-laughs and look down. “I thought I was good at hiding my feelings.” 

“You’re only seventeen, kiddo. Nobody’s good at that at that age.”

I bite my lip. “I wish I was.”

“You don’t hafta be. You’re seventeen.”

“I know!” I exclaim. It came out wrong. I’m tired. I’m moody. “Sorry.”

Jacob’s just chuckling at me. “See what I mean?”

I smile a little, not wanting  to laugh at myself. I punch him on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“You hit like a girl.”

“I am a girl!”

“And a pretty one. And don’t you fucking object.”

I’m taken aback but I’m smiling. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about my stupid brother, okay?”

I give him a look. “Which one?”

He sighs. “You know which.”

He’s right. I do know. We both do. I’m more at peace with it then I thought’d I’d be. Another yawn escapes me.

“Get to bed, kid. It’s late.”

I nod, rising. “Thanks, you know...for the company.”

“Don’t hafta thank me for that. I should be thanking you. It gets real lonely out here.”

“Oh,” I say. “Will you be here tomorrow night?”

Jacob looks up at me. For the first time there’s a hint of brightness in his tired eyes. Like I’ve made him look forward to something that I couldn’t promise. I’m not sure why I asked. Joseph will be back tomorrow and everything will return to normal. I hope I didn’t get his hopes up. 

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Jacob says. “But I guess I could-”

“You don’t have to!” I say. “I mean I probably wouldn’t be able to come out-”

“Why not? You make your own decisions don’t you?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

I shake my head. “Nothing! I’m sorry. I’m just really tired. Goodnight, brother. I’ll...um… see you tomorrow.”

“G’night, kid.”

* * *

Knock knock knock knock knock.

“Rachel! Get up!”

I rise, rubbing my eyes. I crashed on my bed still dressed. “John?”

“No. It’s the fucking toothfairy. Wake up, Rachel!”

I’m too sleepy. I flop back into the pillow. “Gimme ten minutes.”

“The cops are here! They’re asking for you!”

It’s too early for this. “What?”

“The cops are here!”

I throw myself out of bed and fumble sleepy eyed to the door. I open it.

“You look like shit.” John says.

I groan. “So what?”

He pulls me by the arm. It’s too bright. I squint. 

When my eyes finally adjust I see it. A police car is parked in front of the compound. Project members surround it. I pick out Jacob’s red hair from the crowd, the lights on the car, and a brown hat. John pulls me through the herd of people. I recognize the man in the brown broad brimmed hat; a tall and blocky older gentleman with a long thick moustache above his lip. The local sheriff. Earl Whitehorse.

Another figure emerges from the car. I know her instantly. Dark skin, ripped t-shirt, gray jeans, straightened hair. It’s Tracey.

She runs around the car and instantly pulls me into the tightest hug I’ve ever felt. 

“You’re alive! Thank God you’re alive!”

It takes me a minute. I pat her on the back. “Yeah… I-I am.”

She pulls away and looks at my face, examining me. 

“You look like shit.” She says. It’s better coming from her than from John.

“I woke up about ninety seconds ago.” I sigh. “Can’t expect much from me.”

“Faith?” A child’s voice from the crowd asks. “Who’s this?”

I turn, not knowing who I’m addressing. “This is… this is one of my old friends.”

“The Father tells us not to trust the police.” Another voice says. 

“He says they’ll take our freedom.” Another chimes in.

Voices of concern mumble and murmur throughout the crowd. 

“Settle down! Everyone! Settle down!” John commands. He turns around, waving them off with his hands. “Go back inside. Get back to work. Nothing to see here.”

When they don’t completely scatter Jacob barks orders at them. “You heard the man. Get out!”

Some still linger. “We’re worried about Sister Faith.” One says.

“Where’s The Father?” Another asks.

“I’ll be fine.” I assure them, my voice gentle and calm. “And he will be back soon. Don’t worry.”

Finally the last of them leave.

“I believe I’d like to know where he is myself.” The Sheriff states. 

John takes charge of the conversation. “He’s on important business.”

Whitehorse turns to me. “Rachel?” He asks. “Rachel Jessop?”

That wasn’t my name anymore. “It’s Faith now.” I say.

Tracey rolls her eyes. “This is her, Sheriff.”

“I know.” He says. “I remember you. You were one of the girls at that party we shut down.”

I nod. “And the girl you caught smoking pot behind the gym at the school.”

He chuckles. “You gonna give me a list, girlie?”

I certainly could. But no. I shake my head.

“So what are you doing here?” He asks. “Tracey called me this morning and said she hasn’t seen or heard from you in five weeks.”

I nod again. “That’s right sir.”

“Where’s your phone?” Tracey interjects. “Why haven’t you been answering?”

“We don’t allow those here.” John answers for me. 

The Sheriff turns to him. “Now why is that?”

John opens his mouth to speak but clearly doesn’t have an answer. “Ask Joseph.”

The Sheriff gives him a smug grin. “I would if he was here, wouldn’t I?”

Embarrassed, John changes his tone. “How can we help you, sir?”

“Well, I believe this little lady needs to come home.” He says, patting my shoulder. 

“She’s here by choice.” John argues. “All of us are.”

Whitehorse sighs. “The problem is that she’s a minor. She needs to be at home where she belongs.”

All the screaming. The broken glass. The scattered food and papers everywhere. That doorknob that wouldn't turn.

“I don’t belong there, Sheriff.” I say. “I’ve found my place. It’s here.”

“You father still has custody over you, and he will until you turn eighteen.”

I don’t want to go back there. Maybe if he knew what life was like behind those walls he’d know why I ran away. 

“With all due respect, sir, legal custody or not I do not believe that Rachel is safe back home with her father.” John speaks for me. “You should have seen the bruises on her when she first arrived. They’ve long faded now but… it was clear she wasn’t safe. So Joseph took her in. She’s got everything she needs right here.”

The Sheriff sighs and looks at me. “Is that so, Rachel?”

I nod. With officers I’ve found that saying less is more.

The man sighs again. “Well, if that’s so-”

“Look,” Tracey says, “I know you’re… happy here, Rach. I might not understand it but you say this is what you want-”

“It’s just different in the eyes of the law, sweetheart.” The Sheriff explains. 

“Right.” John says, taking a step forward. “I understand completely. But allow me to ask, if I may: have you seen the condition that her home is in? I’m hesitant to even call it that, for _this_ is her home now. Surely, Sheriff, I’d think that once you saw the inside of that house that you’d think twice about forcing her to go back there.”

I'm shocked by his eloquent speech. I've gotten so used to his biting remarks and hateful words toward me. Why is he making an effort to keep me here now? I thought he wanted me gone.

Whitehorse looks to Tracey, “Have you been inside her house in the last six months?”

Tracey shakes her head. “Her father wouldn’t let me in.”

“Have _you_?” He asks John rather demandingly. 

I’m shaking. I don’t like where this is going. My heart pumps panic throughout my body. “Please don’t make me go back there!” I beg. “Please. You mustn’t!”

“Easy now.” Whitehorse says. “Rachel. Be honest. Your father hasn’t contacted you since you’ve been gone?”

I swallow. “He did once. The morning after I left. But I haven’t had my phone since then and Tracey didn’t know where I was staying so… she couldn’t tell him. I’ve moved three times since I found Eden’s Gate.”

“Problem is, he hasn’t called my department, either.” Whitehorse admits. “We wouldn’t’ve come looking for you if it weren’t for Tracey.”

Why couldn’t Tracey just leave me alone? Why did she have to ruin this for me? Couldn’t she have just forgotten all about me? I look at her. In her eyes I’m still her best friend. And in my heart, she’s still mine. But I made a choice. A choice that’s been better for my life. 

“I’ll tell you what,” the Sheriff says, “You can stay right here for the time being. I will personally investigate the situation and come back to bring you home if it’s safe. Don’t think it’ll be by the sound of it, but… I gotta check.”

“She won’t be going straight home. You can’t do that.” John intrudes. “I’m a lawyer. State of Georgia but I know that this decision lies with the court, not the police department. Conduct your investigation, Sheriff, but Rachel isn’t going anywhere until we’ve given it proper thought and council, more particularly until we hear it from a judge.”

The Sheriff backs off. He’s surprised by John’s wit. “Alright, Mr. Seed. Pardon me, but I didn’t take you for such an intellectual.”

“Well, in fact, I am.” John says. He sounds polite though the remark is rude.

“Right. Well.” Whitehorse rolls his shoulders, getting ready to leave. “I’m at least glad that your friend is alive and well, Tracey.”

He begins to walk to the car, then pauses. He turns back around to John.

"One last order of business, you wouldn't happen to have seen a woman named Selena Glazebrook or know of her whereabouts?"

John swallows hard. "No, sir. I haven't heard of her."

"Right. Well." The Sheriff says again. He stops, thinks for a moment, like he’s remembering something, then turns to look back at me.

“You got a little brother too, Rachel, don’t ya?”

I nod. “His name is David and his autism is severe. He’s fourteen.”

“I’ll make sure he’s okay.” Whitehorse assures. 

This time his fingers reach the brim of his hat, tipping it slightly. “Gentlemen. Rachel.” He opens the driver seat door and gets in.

Tracey gives me another hug. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like she’s betrayed me. No one would have given my disappearance a second thought if it weren’t for her. 

“I’m glad you’re safe.” She says, then looks me in the eye. “Listen, I didn’t mean for this to turn into some sort of crazy custody battle or anything-”

“You don’t want me here.” My words burn. 

She sighs. “Maybe I was a little harsh. I’m sorry.”

“You want me back there so I can suffer and so you can have me all to yourself.” 

“Rachel! No! You think I’d go through all this trouble so that you could suffer?”

“I wouldn’t have a reason to be here if it weren’t for you.” I say with a cold dark anger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You made me an addict. You’re an enabler. And when things went wrong back home you gave me more drugs. You’re the reason I hate myself.”

She’s stunned. Her eyes are filling with tears. I don’t care.

John puts a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

“Rachel-”

I don’t turn around. I walk with my new brothers back to my new home.

* * *

 

John’s got his reading glasses on and is flipping through the pages of various law books on his desk. I am sitting in a chair across from him, palms sweaty and breathing shallow. There’s an open seat beside me. Despite this, Jacob leans in a corner, eating an apple.

John sharply exhales, spinning his swivel chair to eye his brother. “Would you quit chewing so loudly? I'm trying to focus!” 

Jacob gives him obnoxious look and chews louder, his mouth open. I cringe.

John rolls his eyes and spins back around.

“Have you found anything?” I ask nervously.

He shakes his head. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Don’t you think we should wait for Joseph to get back before we discuss anything?” Jacob says between bites.

“Where is he?” I say immediately, my nerves limiting my self control. 

John chuckles at me. “Who knows?”

Jacob speaks, his syllables unclear from his mouth full of apple. “Sill a- the - on-vent.”

John spins to him again. “What?” He says, sharp and articulate as ever.

Jacob swallows. “At the convent.” He mumbles.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, would you speak up?” John whines.

“At. The. Convent.” Jacob roars.

I can’t help but giggle at their squabbling. 

John slams his hand on the desk. I jump. 

“Is this a joke to you?” He asks me seriously. His unpredictable nature startles me.

“N-no.” I squeak. 

He leans close to me. “You know I’m doing you a real big favor by saving your ass here, right?”

“John, back off.” Jacob barks.

John continues to stare me down. “It’d be a hell of a lot easier just to let you go back to your real family. But my brother is just too damn attached to you already, so, here I am, wasting my time and youth on-”

“John, back off!” Jacob barks again.

Right before the situation can escalate the door opens. I turn in a flash to see who it is. The minute I recognize Joseph, I spring out of my seat and run into him, throwing my arms around him and hiding my face like a needy child. 

In his surprise it takes him a moment to return the embrace. “Well, hello there.” He says, laughing at me lovingly. He puts some distance between us and lifts my chin to look at my face. I stare into his eyes. His face falls when he sees that something isn’t right. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking up to see his brothers in the room.

John is the first to speak. “Our friend the Sheriff came by looking for Rachel this morning.”

“Faith.” Joseph corrects, crossing over to his brother. I follow close behind. “Did they now?”

“Indeed, they did.” John sighs. Then, with vile presumptuous blame, interrogates Joseph. “Did you know she’s seventeen?”

Joseph takes a seat, slow to answer. “I did. Does it matter?”

“It does, in the eyes of the law.” John says as if his brother was the most ignorant man to walk the earth, which Joseph is not. 

I return to my seat, now sitting next to Joseph and feeling much safer. “Please. I’ll do anything," I say, "I want to be here. Don’t let them take me back home.”

Joseph finds my hand and holds it. “We won’t let them. Don’t fret, child.”

I’m so glad he’s back.

“From what I’ve gathered, here are our options,” John begins, “Firstly, she could get emancipated, meaning her parent would no longer be obligated to support her. But she needs to prove she’s capable of supporting herself. Financially, that is.”

“Which I can’t,” I say.

“But why would she need to if she’s here?” Joseph inquires. “Everything is taken care of.  _I_ will take care of her.”

“Which brings us to option two,” John says, “She can get married.”

“What?” Jacob exclaims.

“What?” I whisper.

“No.” Joseph says. “We aren’t doing that.”

I shouldn’t be sad about it. I shouldn’t. I had no reason to ever hope for it in the first place. The thought never even crossed my mind. Maybe it’s the way he was so quick to object to it. Maybe it’s because I know that his wife will always be his wife and I will just be Rachel. I can’t replace her. 

“But why?” John asks.

Joseph sighs. “You know why I can’t do that.”

I do. And it hurts. 

“Actually I don’t.” John says. 

Joseph tries to explain himself. “I have a reputation here. The way the church sees me…” he says, “I’m not sure if this will make sense, but for them it would be like watching the Pope take a wife. It messes with their idea of him. He’s not supposed to put anything above the church.”

I can’t tell if that’s the truth or if he’s only saying it so he doesn’t hurt my feelings.

“It doesn’t have to be you.” John tells him. “It could be any of us. And it would only be by name. Certainly not by bond. It’s just to get her out of her father’s custody.”

“But wouldn’t we need my father’s consent for me to get married?”

John bites his lip. “Therein lies the rub.”

“Why don’t we just wait until she turns eighteen?” Jacob buts in.

John is embarrassed that he didn’t think of that in the first place. “Well, there _is_ that.” He fingers his beard, feigning thought. “When is your birthday, Rachel?”

“Faith.” Joseph corrects.

John is tense and silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, _Faith_. When is your birthday?”

“September 19th.”

John nods. “Well… that gives us two months, roughly.”

“Let’s wait it out, then. Lay low.” Jacob says, trying to get the discussion over with. 

“Not so fast.” John says. “The Sheriff is going to look into her house. See what’s going on. If it is subpar, and I’m sure it is, from what Rachel, excuse me, _Faith_ ,  has told us, then the state will take custody of her.”

“Why would they bother with that for two months?” Jacob asks, chucking his apple core out the window. 

“Because it’s the _law_.” John says. “The law doesn’t make exceptions.”

“And if her father passes away?” Joseph suggests.

John thinks. “Well I’m sure it would have the same outcome. She’d be a ward of the state until she turned eighteen. And they’d likely force her to finish school.”

“Well then what are we left with?” Joseph asks, frustrated. 

“Let her go back home for two months and you can have her back when she’s an adult.”

“Do _not_ do that to me!” I plead. “You don’t understand what he will do to me. I can’t go back. It’s hell.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Joseph assures. “I won’t let them take you.”

“It doesn’t seem like there’s a way out of it.” Jacob says bitterly.

“Wait,” I say, thinking. “If I can get my dad’s permission, I can drop out of school-”

“Fuck that.” John says.

“Language.” Joseph warns.

“Language?” John laughs. “Language? I’m trying to save your new toy and you’re worried about language?”

“She’s not a _toy_!” Joseph seethes.

“She’s a child.” John says. “You sure like making things difficult.”

“He’s not making anything difficult!” I defend. “He saved me!”

“And now it is I who am trying to save you, Rachel.” John glares at me. “The ball is in my court. You won’t be here another week if I don’t figure this out.”

Joseph tenses but doesn’t bother correcting him on my name for a third time. 

Jacob approaches the desk. “Well if you can’t win legally, then all that’s left is to try and win illegally.”

“What are you suggesting?” Joseph asks. Neither of us like the sound of that.

“Believe it or not, Faith, John’s good at sweet talking.” Jacob explains to me with a sly grin. “He had the entire city of Atlanta wrapped around his little finger once.”

I can only imagine the things that  _John_ might've done, how he went about getting what he wanted. I shudder. 

John doesn’t bother hiding his pride. “Indeed I did.”

I’m confused and scared. “Well then why didn’t you think of that earlier?” I ask.

“It’s not that I didn’t think of it,” John says, then adding wickedly, “I’m trying to be a good boy, that’s all.”

Joseph swallows and shakes his head, eyes down in thought. “Well… for _her_ … you can make an exception.”

Clearly there's a lot I don't know. I'm not sure I want to imagine it. I know I want to stay here but I don't know how I feel about being involved with men who break the law. But I bite my tongue. They're older and wiser. All I can do is sit back and trust.

John rubs his hands together in excitement, ready to do some dirty work. I don't like the grin on his face.

“Alright then." He announces. "Here’s what we’re going to do.”


	8. Darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my Aunt Tinde. Thank you for reading this story and supporting my writing from the beginning! I hope you have the happiest of birthdays. Love you lots.
> 
> A Quick Author Note Plus A Few Trigger Warnings: This chapter does not reflect my personal views of women or how they should be treated. Please read with common sense and understand that one of the great and historic purposes of fiction is to *expose* the ills of society, not to show us how society "should be". Those of you who've been reading this work since Chapter 1 know that I am not here to sugar coat anything, but at the same time not trying to "glorify" behavior that is sexist, demeaning, or harmful. The reality is that life isn't sunshine and rainbows. Especially not Rachel's life. I hope that you can read this chapter and empathize with her pain and her position rather than wishing she didn't go through all this. Brushing stuff under the rug and pretending it did not happen is not how we fix things, its how we forget things. 
> 
> That said, I want to thank everyone for sticking with this story. Your support and feedback make my day and I am so glad that you guys are enjoying this emotional roller coaster. Buckle up and lets continue the ride.

John has entered full on planning mode. He begins pitching his ideas radiating confidence and certainty, the kind of man who’d be deadly on the sales floor and absolutely lethal in a courtroom.  He could convince someone to stand in front of an oncoming train and also make them believe it was their idea from the start. 

“First thing I need to do is figure out who the county judge is. I will put together a profile on him. We will get to know what he likes, what kind of people he respects, how old he is and most importantly, how loose he is.”

Joseph bites his lip and listens. He doesn’t revel in his brother’s schemes. He rather hates it. I can tell he does. 

“Once that’s sorted out we invite him over.” John continues. “For dinner. At my ranch. We will wine and dine the guy, allow him to get to know us.”

Joseph shakes his head. “No wine.”

“Again, we will _wine_ and dine the guy.” John ignores, firm about his point.

“We will not.” Joseph pushes back.

John gives him a look of annoyance. “We are doing this for Rachel.”

“You’re doing it.” Joseph says. “I’ll take no part in this. And for the last time, it’s Faith.”

“But you’re the face of our operation!” John continues to sell his idea. Operation. I hate the way that makes our lovely little church sound. I can sense that Joseph does too. We aren’t an operation. We’re a community. 

“I’ll make an appearance if that’s what you want.” Joseph sighs. “And make conversation if I must.”

John smirks. “You’ll get to tell him the story of how you found this beautiful broken bird and why you’d like to keep her in our gilded cage.”

Jacob laughs at John. “She’s in the room, you know.”

Perhaps to John I will always be a plaything. Maybe to him all women are. I know better than to whine about it. I know his type. And I know I am not _his_ type. That alone makes me useless in his eyes.

John looks at me. I can just tell. He finds me pathetic. Pitiful. A waste of his time. At least he’s getting a great deal of enjoyment out of coming up with this elaborate plot.

“And she’s awfully quiet.” He says without an ounce of care or remorse.

Joseph comes to my defense. “John, do try to treat our sister like a human being, please.” He speaks like a parent trying to wrangle spiteful siblings. And here I was, the littlest one. His precious girl. 

But I am his lover too. And his “sister”. An awful taste settles inside my mouth. How can I be both? How can I be all three? Who’d want the same person to be _all_ those things?

John rolls his eyes and goes on. “If she weren’t a human being we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Rather unfortunate that she is, really.” He chuckles callously.

“That’s low, John.” Jacob says. “That’s real low.”

“Don’t worry.” I say nonchalantly. “I’ve heard far worse.”

“Like what?” John has the audacity to ask.

“Maybe I’ll tell you once you finish going over this plan?” I taunt.

He leans back in his chair smugly. “As I was saying. We invite the man over. Wine and dine the guy. Jacob, it’d be nice to see you in your uniform.”

Jacob shakes his head. “Haven’t worn that dirty old thing in ages.”

“Republicans respect military men.” John says. "You'd be doing us a real favor."

Jacob just laughs it off. “I don’t even know if that thing fits me anymore.”

“Well, perfect opportunity to try it on. And you should clean up that beard some. I know an excellent barber in the area.”

It’s painfully obvious that John does. He’s always so well groomed.

“I’m perfectly capable of shaving my own face.” Jacob declines. 

“Oh you don’t have to _shave_ it.” John pushes. “Just clean it up a little. Speaking of which…” he looks at me, “What are we going to do about you?”

I don’t know what he’s implying. “Um… I can put my hair up?” I suggest.

He laughs at me. “We’re trying to make you look appetizing. Not like a librarian who has been sitting on a shelf for too long.”

I don't like that. Neither does Joseph. “I think she’s fine just as she is.” He states.

“ _Fine_ , yes, but we want something special.” John sets his elbows on the table, spreading out his hands and looking at my face in between them. “Hear me out- eyeliner.”

Jacob agrees immediately. “Yes!”

Joseph refuses immediately. “No.”

“That’s two yeses and one no. Eyeliner it is.” John says triumphantly.“Do you know how to put eyeliner on?” He asks me.

“Do _you_?” I rudely retort.

He chuckles. “You’re funny. Lipstick?”

I roll my eyes. “Every girl knows how to put on lipstick. But I don’t have any of that stuff with me.”

John sighs. “There’s gotta be a mall in this county.”

I know my home town and he doesn’t. “There’s a supermarket.” I say. “And a thrift shop. Couple of antique markets and a drug store.”

“Nothing more… civilized?” 

I shake my head. “I’ve lived here my whole life. There’s nothing unless you drive to Missoula.”

“Have you ever worn something short? Low cut?” John asks me.

Who was he to ask? Why did he want to know? “Of course I _have_.” I say, somewhat embarrassed by sharing the information. “But I don’t have any of those things with me.”

“Nor should she.” Joseph says. 

John rolls his eyes. “Trust me on this one.”

“No, John. I draw a line there. She’ll dress modestly or she won’t be seen.” 

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t like to see her in something more revealing.” John says.

That was completely uncalled for. Joseph puts up his guard. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, _brother._ ”

John groans, backing off. “I’m not implying anything." He says, although he certainly  _was_ , "But surely there’s got to be _something_ we can put her in that doesn’t look like it came from the 19th century?”

“What’s wrong with what she has on?” Jacob buts in, getting protective.

“Everything.” John says. “We need to present ourselves as respectable, modern people. I'm not saying she should dress like a whore but something a little more… current. And just a bit more… exposing.”

Joseph thinks. He looks at me, then back at his brother. “I don’t like this. Any of this. She’s not for _sale_.”

“I never said anything of the sort.” John defends. “But everyone likes looking at a pretty girl. She’s got to look like a woman. Like she can hold her own. How else are we supposed to convince the judge that she’s fine where she is? Looks have more power than you think. It’s a subtle detail but it will help our cause.”

My mother used to say a very similar thing. _Never underestimate the power of a woman who uses her charms wisely_. It's a truth that many don't like to admit. I know I never liked the idea of using my body to get what I want. But I know that now I might have to. Even if it means sitting still and looking pretty. I respect John for how fast his brain works, even if he disrespects me completely and makes me feel disgusting. But I’m smart myself, when it comes to some things. 

“And if the county judge is a woman?” I ask. “What happens to your plan then?” She'd see right through the whole scheme, if she's smart.

John wasn’t expecting that. He smiles it off. 

“Well… that’ll just make things easier.”

“How so?” I inquire.

“None of you will have to do anything, in that case.” He takes off his reading glasses, folding them and setting them on his desk. “I will… take _care_ of her.”

The sight of his hand travelling up the old Faith’s skirt burns in my mind. He thinks he can get any girl to do his bidding by sleeping with her. If he wasn’t so intelligent I’d think his plan to seduce a county judge is foolish and bound to fail. But he’s got everything most girls look for. He’s handsome, with his dark hair, shapely beard and straight white teeth. He’s well built. His intelligence shines through his dangerous eyes. He’s devilishly slick and smooth with his words. And based on the fabric of his shirt, the cut of his vest, the statement of his wristwatch… he’s clearly got taste. More importantly: he’s got money. Seduction should be among one of his easiest tasks.

Unless of course the judge is old and fat and married.

“And if she’s not your type?” I ask.

John doesn’t like that I can see right through him. He might’ve met his match with me. And I can see that he hates that. But something switches in him. His hatred for me and his objective to make me feel unwelcome becomes something else. He no longer sees me as an annoyance but rather a challenge. A girl he can’t quite beat.

“I’ll do what I must.” He says.

Joseph tenses further. He’s awfully quiet. I know he’s angered and disgusted by all this. Jacob stares off in thought, tuning us out. He's not quite happy either. 

“No matter plan A or plan B,” John continues, “I will persuade the judge to let Rachel stay here.”

“It’s Faith!” Joseph snaps. “For the very last time, it’s Faith!” He stands up, unwilling to tolerate the scheming any longer. “And I want to make one thing _very_ clear: this isn’t going to become a regular thing. We are _not_ going to start _manipulating_ and _seducing_ people in order to get what we want. I mean that, John. Your days of womanizing and verbalizing and lying and cheating people are over. This is the last time I will tolerate this behavior. If it comes up again, if you try to play your tricks again in the name of this Church or not, I will never see you again. Have I made myself clear?”

There’s a change in John’s crystal eyes. Twenty nine years old and he looks very much like a child. And not a bratty one. But a scared, vulnerable, nervous wreck of a boy who can’t cope with the thought of being abandoned. 

“I’m only doing it for you.” He says innocently. “For you because you care about her.”

“Don’t do it for me. Do it for her. Do it out of the goodness of your heart. And…” Joseph lets out a long sigh. “Wherever you can stop yourself from sinning, John, please try to do so. Or else heaven will forever be out of your reach.”

“Yes, Joseph.” He says quietly, obediently, his spell of authority and power over and done with.

“Come, Faith.” Joseph says, offering me his hand. “Let’s go.”

I take it and follow him out.

* * *

 

That night I sit in my tub and allow the water to run over my feet as it fills. I'm trying to forget John's disrespect, but for some reason, I feel like he's right about his plan. We have to play dirty to get ourselves out of this knot. Part of me doesn't want to believe that politics and law can be swayed by social interactions, by acts of communion and bottles of wine. As much as I hate it I know that it's true. That it has happened before and will keep happening. That people are weak. John understands that and knows how to exploit it to his advantage. Or in this case, to my advantage.

“Why don’t you fill it and _then_ get in?”

I jump when I hear Joseph’s voice. I must not have heard him open the door. But I’m very happy to see him. 

“Because.” I shrug. “That’s just how I do it.”

He chuckles. “Funny girl.”

He approaches me slowly and kneels by the side of the tub. I’m less and less shy around him. I used to try to keep myself covered, to avoid being seen but even in this short time that has managed to change. I trust him more and more as the days go by. 

He reaches towards me with that delicate hesitation, as if he were touching porcelain or glass. He moves my hair off my shoulder and looks at my neck. 

“I ought to be more careful about leaving those behind.” He scolds himself. “Someone’s bound to catch sight of them eventually. I’m sorry.”

I lean back against the wall of the tub, taking his hand. “Maybe I should leave some on your neck sometime.” I suggest.

“No.” He says.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got a reputation to uphold. You know that.”

I think of his response to John's suggestion this morning. “Is that why you won’t marry me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Is that why you won’t marry me?” I find the strength to repeat.

Joseph is quiet. He swallows. He looks everywhere but at me. "You need your father's consent to marry."

"But you shut down the option before you even knew that." I remind.

He stands suddenly and begins to pace, holding a hand to his forehead, puffing out air. He drops his hand back down and rubs them together over and over and over again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. I can’t tell if he’s nervous or upset or angry.

“Darling?” I gently ask.

“Don’t call me that.” He dejects, sitting on the bed.

His biting response stings. I shut up immediately. I think it’s better to let him talk. I watch the water run, the tub now half full. 

When he’s ready, he begins to talk in circles, to try to get his head around his own thoughts while at the same time explain himself. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I… I didn’t mean it that way.” He says. “I just… I… I want to move on but I can’t. I’m… do you ever feel like you’ve been put in a jar? Like you’re a pirate ship in a bottle? Like there is glass all around you and the only way out is to shatter it but you’ll scrape your knuckles and cut your hands and send shards flying at your face in the process?”

I keep watching the water run. “I used to. But then one day someone came into my life, opened the jar, and set me free.” He’s that person. I’m not sure he knows it but I hope that he does. 

“I feel like my heart is stuck in a jar.” He says.

I reach over to the faucet and rinse my hands, still not looking at him. “I’m sure there have been girls who have tried to open it.” Megan. Me. God knows who else.

“I’m the only one who can.” He sighs. “I’m the only one who knows how. But… to let someone in…”

I thought he had let me in. I guess I was wrong. I cup my hands, filling them with water and splash my shoulders and chest. 

He continues to try and explain. “I just want you to understand that… that I’m not young like you. I don’t have a heart that is open and free from injury and so easily given.”

I shake my head. “I don’t care, Joseph.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve suffered too. The only difference is that I am not afraid to suffer again.”

“Who said I’m afraid?”

“You did. You don’t want to let someone in. Even someone who can help you.”

“And you think you can help me, Faith?”

“If you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

He’s quiet. So quiet I can hear him thinking. He finally speaks.

“I want to… I want to help you. It shouldn’t be the other way around. You deserve to be cared for and protected. I’ve known you for such a short time. But I can’t stand the thought of losing you to them.” He admits. “I won’t let it happen. I know I was firm with John about it earlier but really, I’d do anything for you. I really would.”

“Then why won’t you marry me?” I ask.

His head drops as he sighs. “I can’t. You know I can't.”

“Think about it, Joseph. Aside from getting me out of my dad's custody, we can stop hiding. We’ll no longer have to pretend. We can hold hands when everyone is watching. You can kiss me whenever you feel like it.”

“Little dove, you don’t understand. The way the congregation views me-”

“They are at your beck and call!” I say. “They will follow you to hell and back. Whatever is fine by you is fine by them. Marry me. We can get this whole mess over with so easily. And John won’t have to pull any strings. We can be happy.”

He raises his voice. “Can’t you see that every time you bring it up it hurts me?” 

I don’t like it when he gets loud. I glance at him. He's holding his head in his hands. His wife. I know that he is thinking of her.

“I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

I keep to myself again. I already know when not to talk back.

“It’s got nothing to do with you, Rachel. It’s me. It’s all me. I can’t do it.”

He used my name. My real name. The ache of sadness starts to run through me, filling me up like the water in the tub. 

“Do you remember…” I say softly and sadly. “When you told me that her place was mine now, if I’d take it?”

It’s like we both feel her presence in the room. She surrounds us. She haunts us. She keeps him from moving on. Keeps him from me.

“Of course I do.” He sighs. 

“I’m trying to take it but it’s like you won’t let me. You won’t even let me try.” My voice shakes out. I look away.

I hold my breath and try not to cry. I hear his footsteps across the wooden floor and his arm wrap around my shoulders as he kneels beside the tub. To get away from his embrace I lean forward and turn off the faucet.

“Rachel.”

There he was. Using my name again.“It’s fine,” I say. “I get it.”

“It’s not fine. I know it’s not.”

He tries to hold me. His white sleeve turns grey from the water.

“You’re going to get your shirt all wet.” I say.

“I don’t care.” He pulls me closer against my will.

I try to wring free of him. “Please. I want to be left alone.”

“No you don’t. I know you don’t.”

Of course he is right. He’s always right. I swallow my aching sadness again, trying not to show weakness and trying not to care. 

“You’re mad at me, I can tell.” He whispers in my ear. 

I remember what Jacob told me last night, that no one is good at hiding their feelings when they are seventeen. I wish that I was older. I wish I was older so none of this would be an issue. So I could stay here because I want to and not have to worry about the law, or about my dad, or about John’s stupid plan. 

Joseph isn’t giving up on me. “Tell me how to make it better, love.”

“Don’t call me that.” I say, deflecting the name the same way he deflected my ‘darling’. But unlike him I _want_ to be called those things. But not if they aren't true. I'd rather snip the rose and leave the thorns if thorns are all that's there.

“Please let me.” He begs.

“You’re confusing me.”

“How so?”

“You call me ‘love’ but I can’t call you ‘darling’.” I don’t even think he realizes his hypocrisy.

He tightens his grip on me, coiling like a snake. “I’m sorry.”

“Let me go. Leave me alone.” I snap.

“Forgive me, love.” His hands start to wander down underneath the water, soaking the cuffs of his sleeves as he fondles my chest. I want to resist him. I try to resist him. But he knows just how to touch me. It feels too good. I start to sink into him and the hot water. The conflicting thoughts are overflowing. Tears well in my eyes.

“You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He says again, greedy hand sinking further into the water, farther down my body, seeking that sacred place.

When he reaches it I arch my back compulsively. I want to stay angry. I want to resist. It shouldn’t be so easy for him to melt me back down to putty in his hands from just a few simple strokes. But he has that power over me.

“Don’t…” I try.

He doesn’t stop. I don’t know if I want him too. I _should_ want him to.

“Listen to me.” He says. “I’d do anything for you. I’d _kill_ for you. Whatever it takes to keep you here, I’ll do it.”

But he won’t marry me.

“You know that…” His fingers continue their dirty work. “Don’t you?”

I can’t hold in my gasps. The conflicting thoughts overflow further. The tears that run down my cheeks drop into the tub, sending ripples throughout the water’s surface.

He’s astute enough to notice them. With his free hand he leans my head back into the crook of his arm so that I am staring up at him. I feel like a baby. Completely and utterly vulnerable.

“Why the tears, little dove?”

I feel like I’m choking underneath the confusion and corruption of my own mind. I remember last night. How I was up until the early hours of the morning waiting for him. The emptiness I felt when he wasn't there. He was at the convent. He was with Megan. 

“I missed you.” I mumble.

It was the wrong thing to say. It was completely wrong. But it came out and there’s no taking it back.

A kiss on my head. “I know you did.”

I feel drained. Drained of all my thoughts. Drained of my free will. All that’s left is the wanting.

“Come in with me.” I beg.

A smirk. “There’s not a lot of room in there for the two of us.”

“Then get me a towel.” I say. “Take me to bed.”

He tortures me with a kiss. When moist lips finally part and eyes stay locked he reaches for a towel. He stands, holding it open for me. I step out into the cool room, goosebumps rising everywhere. I’m immediately wrapped in it and his embrace, my arms constrained, only my head and my neck free. I lean into him, my wet hair further soaking his shirt. 

He holds me tight, rubbing his hand up and down my back to warm me up. “I’ll never let them take you from me.”

I look up at him. “Take me to bed.” I ask again needily.

“Of course, darling.”

* * *

 

The next morning we are still tangled up in each other and the sheets when there’s a knock on my door. 

“Rachel? Are you up?” 

At first I’m sure it’s just a dream. I drop my head back against Joseph’s chest.

More knocking. 

“Hello, Rachel?”

Is that John?

I blink my eyes open, sitting up and rubbing them. The knocking continues. Joseph stirs beneath me.

“Helloooooo? Rachel? Wakey wakey!” John calls through the door.

I’m fully awake now. John is at the door. And Joseph is still here. Oh fuck.

I turn and shake Joseph’s shoulders. “Wake up.” I whisper.

He groans and pulls a pillow over his head.

“Wake up!” I continue to shake him.

“Ugh, why so early?” He groans, a little too loudly.

“Shhhhhhhh!” I push the pillow down over his mouth. “John is at the door!”

“What?” He says, once again a little too loudly. 

“Shhhhhhhh! Shut up! Shut up!” I try not to raise my voice. “John is here. You have to hide.”

He emerges from the pillows in a flash. “He’s _what_?”

“He’s here. Outside the door. You need to hide.” I say. 

A stampede of knocks.

“I’m coming!” I call. “Just let me get dressed!”

I jump out of bed and rush over to my closet. I swing the doors open and pull out one of my dresses. Then I get an idea.

“Get in here!” I whisper across the room to Joseph.

“What?” He motions back at me.

“Hide. In. The. Closet.” I say. 

Still naked he rushes out of bed and into the hiding place. He’s really too tall for it. He has to bend his neck to fit. 

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. “I won’t be long. I swear.” I give him a quick kiss and shut the door.

The room is in shambles and so am I. I pull my dress over my head and fuss with all of the buttons running down the front. There are far too many. I finish it hastily and look around. Joseph’s clothes are scattered on the floor. I grab them and chuck them under the bed. 

John won’t stop knocking. Finally feeling like the coast is clear I open my door halfway.

“What do you want?” I say, already annoyed with him.

He looks at me and starts chuckling.

I glance down at my dress. I missed several buttons, the fabric bunching and opening in several places it shouldn’t. I cross my arms.

“You look like shit.” He says just as he did yesterday morning.

“Thank you.” I sigh. “What do you want?”

John brings his hands up and places just his fingertips together. “Rachel, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for the way that I’ve spoken to you. Frankly I haven’t been myself around you and I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong... impression of me.”

When someone has to use the word ‘sincere’ in their apology it usually means they aren’t as sincere as they say. “Okay… and? What do you want?”

“May I come in for a moment?” He asks before practically pushing himself through the door.

“Excuse me!” I try to object.

He looks around the room in disarray. “Goodness, Rachel. You’re quite the restless sleeper, aren’t you?”

It’s not true in the slightest but I don’t really care. “Oh yeah, I just… roll out of bed from time to time.”

He turns back to me, his hands still steepling. 

“Would you like to go shopping?”

I can’t help but laugh at the strange suggestion. “Shopping?”

“Yes, shopping. I’ll drive. We will go together. And don’t worry about the money, I’ll take care of everything.”

I don’t quite trust him, and for a good reason. Just yesterday he hated my guts. “That’s a very kind offer, but-”

“Please. I feel horrible about my behavior and I’d like to make it up to you.”

He’s got million dollar manners when he uses them. “I…” I sigh. “I don’t know, John.”

“But you’re going to need _something_ for that dinner with the judge. I found out he is in fact a white male in his late fifties, so… Plan A it is.” He says with a cheeky grin.

I don’t know what to say.

“Besides…” He looks around my cabin. “You could use a few cheery things to brighten up this place.”

I give him a quizzical look. “The Father doesn’t approve of materialism.”

John walks over to me, standing tall and straight. “But he does want you to be happy.”

It’s so odd hearing John talk like this not knowing that Joseph is in the room. I nod. “That’s true… but-”

He reaches toward me and straightens a section of my hair. “And I’m sure he’d like to see you all… dolled up.” He says. I get shivers. It’s such a simple action yet it carries more than enough weight. What on earth does he mean?

“You heard him yesterday.” I state. “He thinks I’m fine just as I am.”

John giggles, looking at my inaccurately buttoned dress.

“I’m sure he means that.” He says. “But take my word for it. He has no idea what he’s missing.”

There’s a crocodile like slyness in his blue eyes. Something isn’t right.

“You’re a pretty girl.” He tells me. “You’d be stunning with just a few finishing touches.”

Finishing touches? 

He pats my shoulder and turns to leave. “I will meet you outside in ten minutes.”

“But-”

“No buts!”

The moment he shuts the door behind him Joseph emerges from the closet. He sneezes.

“Bless you.” I say.

“It’s dusty in there.” He complains.

I roll my eyes. “You were in there for two minutes.”

“That’s a long time to hold in a sneeze.”

I laugh, chucking his clothes at him. “Get dressed and get out.”

“You’re really going to go with him?” He asks, a tad disappointed as he puts his shirt on.

“I guess so.” I say, letting him finish getting dressed. As soon as he does, I cross over to him. “What do you think? Should I?”

He sees the horrible buttoning of my dress and immediately begins to fix it. “I’m not _opposed_ to it.”

I give him a wicked grin. “But what?”

“I just want you to be safe.”

“You don’t trust me with your brother?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Maybe I should accompany you.”

“But you heard him.” I tease. “I think he wants to surprise you more than I do.”

His lip twitches as he holds in laughter. “F-finishing touches.”

I start to giggle. “Finishing touches.”

“I’m sorry.” He says through laughter, fixing the last button on my dress. “I have no idea why he talks like that.”

“Who knows and who cares?” I finish my fit of giggles with a sigh, looking around. “Well… I guess I’d better go… shopping.”

He holds a finger up to my face. “Nothing above the knee. And sleeve width: two fingers _minimum_.”

“Yes, daddy.” I say jokingly.

“Don’t call me that!” He tries to be serious but he can’t help himself.

I stick a small part of my tongue out at him. Bleh.

He falls for the taunt. “Oh, you’re in big trouble now!” He reaches for me and wiggles his fingers in my sides.

“No!” I squeal, running from him, a mess of laughter. 

He chases me around the cabin, threatening me with tickles. “I’m going to get you! I’m going to get you!”

“Catch me if you can, old man!”

I almost slip on part of the floor that was still wet from the bath last night.

“Careful!” He calls out.

The moment I regain my balance we are back to our game of cat and mouse. Finally he corners me against the bed and tickles me until I can’t breathe.

“Uncle! Uncle!” I give in, out of breath from laughter. 

He collapses beside me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen him wear. For just one moment we are both completely happy and free. As we regain our composure and catch our breath caution returns to me. I wish it never would.

“I should probably go.” I say. “And you should probably get out of here before someone comes looking for you.”

He’s still panting from our game. “You’re right.”

I sit up, giving him a quick kiss before I stand.

“Be safe, Faith.” He tells me.

“I’ll see you soon.” I say with a wink as I leave.


	9. Two Can Keep A Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This chapter was approaching 8,000 words and I decided to split it in two. 
> 
> EDIT: Horizontal lines didn’t go through when I copy pasted from my google doc. I just fixed it. Sorry for any confusion!!
> 
> Just FYI school will be starting up soon for me and I will probably have to extend my wait between chapters. Nothing huge, just 2 weeks as opposed to the usual 7-10 days. 
> 
> Thank you to @your_taxidermy for proofreading this when my brain just couldn't anymore :,) you're a real one.
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for commenting, kudoing, and reading! Enjoy Chapter 9!

Before I get in the car with John, there is a question I need to ask.

“Why are you doing this?”

He stops and turns. Every move he makes leaks his own awareness of just how suave and attractive he truly is. 

“Let me make one thing clear, Rachel. I don’t like you.”

“I thought you made that clear enough already.” I say. “That’s what led me to ask.”

He leans against the hood of the truck. “I don’t like you. But my brother does. Both of them do. And I’m doing this to maintain my relationships with them. Just know that, in private, deep down and far in, that there are no happy feelings in my heart for you. Only a tolerance which I must have because there are things in life that are important to me. While my animosity for you is strong, it’s not quite as strong as my love for my family.”

He wasn’t speaking like this ten minutes ago. He was polite and chivalrous and seemed more genuine than I’ve ever known him to be. 

“If that’s true, John, and believe me, I know that it is, why were you acting like such a gentleman? Why the apology? Why even offer to make amends to me in _private_?”

Immediately I regret the emphasis I placed on the word. John is too cunning. It’s very unlikely he didn’t catch on to it.

“Were you in private, Rachel, really?” He questions.

I wish I was better at lying. 

He stands up straight, poised and princely. His stance oozes confidence and complete composure which I fear and loathe. “Look. I don’t care if you lie. It doesn’t make a difference to me. No matter your answer I will know the truth eventually.” He looks over my head, back at the compound. “All of us will.” His eyes dart back to me. “Get in.”

I’m hesitant. “Why should I trust you? Why wouldn’t you take this opportunity to get rid of me?”

He shifts his weight but there is nothing passive about the gesture. “Because, Rachel, I love my brother. And I am not going to let you come in between our bond. I’m doing this for him and not for you. If something happens to you he will never forgive me. It should be the other way around. I am his brother, after all. And you?” He chuckles. “You’re nothing more than a plaything.”

“Maybe that’s how you see me.” I challenge. “But why would he go through this much trouble to keep a toy?”

John doesn’t like my point. His eyes narrow, his brows press down oh so slightly. His lips part to reveal just the smooth, filed edge of those perfectly straight white teeth.

“You’d be surprised by how picky he really is. Like I said. You’re lucky he likes you. But I doubt you’ll be the last of your kind.”

I don’t think so. That’s not the Joseph I know. 

“I’m quite determined to stay here, John.” I say.

The right side of his mouth twitches. “In five years, if you’ve lasted that long, I’ll ask you if you think you made the right choice. Get in the car.”

* * *

 

“No, not that.” John says as I hold up a white long sleeve jersey dress.

I groan and put it back on the rack. “Fine.”

“What about a different color?” He suggests. “Pink would be pretty on you.”

I don’t get why he bothered with a compliment. I slide dresses from left to right on my side of the rack, giving them a flash of a glance before dismissing them. “I don’t know if Joseph would approve of that.”

“He said he didn’t want to see you half naked. Not that he didn’t want to see you in red.” John pulls out a fitted, short red dress, cut to the shape of an hourglass.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have the figure for it. And red is obnoxious.” I say.

He doesn’t put it back. He gives me a smug smirk as he sets it over his arm where several other dresses lay and begins to whistle as he pushes past more clothes. We decided to start at the local thrift shop. Well, I did. He was at first opposed to the idea of rummaging through racks of used clothing, until I told him that my mother once bought a Louis Vuitton sweater for five dollars. He was now more determined than ever to find some rare gem at an unbeatable price. Not that price tags matter to him. But bragging rights absolutely do. 

“I hate Betsey Johnson.” He says with a sigh. “She thinks she can put a cat on anything and make it sellable.”

I shrug, not really paying attention to the garments I am skimming past. “I don’t know. I think her stuff is cute.”

“Cute if you’re a teenaged girl.” He says. Then, unable to hold in a chuckle. “Oh wait, you _are_.”

“Don’t remind me.” I sigh.

“I didn’t think my brother liked them this young.”

I stop what I am doing and swallow. I feel icky. A shiver rolls down my back. I know I need to try to cover things up. I pretend to look at the sleeve of a dress. “He doesn’t like me. Not _like_ like me.”

John keeps chuckling. “You even talk like a teen girl.”

Whatever. It’s better not to even say anything to that. 

“Well, I’ve got my picks.” He says, motioning to the pile of dresses he’s developed on his arm. “Go get a changing room.”

“I haven’t found anything I like yet.” I say.

“You try on and I’ll keep looking.” He suggests.

I’m not really in the mood for hunting for clothes anyway. I hate the smell of thrift shops. You just know that everything has been double and triple washed because who knows who donated what and where they’d been. And these fluorescent lights could not get any worse. I feel a headache coming on. 

“Fine.” I say. “Just don’t pull anything trashy, please?”

“Oh, honey. Trashy? Me? Please.” He replies flamboyantly. He has a point. I’ve never seen _him_ wear anything disgusting. “My job is to make you look modern and a bit more… mature. There’s the word I’ve been searching for!” He says triumphantly. “You’re in good hands, Rachel.”

John leads the way to the changing room and puts his pile of picks on the small hangers nailed into the wall. 

“Show me once you’ve got something on.”

“I thought you were going to keep looking?” I say. I really don’t want him lurking outside of the curtain.

“Well, let’s see if we’re lucky with what we have.”

I shut the curtain and shut him out.

It’s the first time I’ve seen my reflection in over a month. There were no mirrors in the compound, or at the convent. At first I don’t recognize myself. I’m not who I remembered I was. My eyes look less sleepless, my skin brighter and cheeks slightly fuller. And the dress I am wearing? Yes, it does look like something out of the 19th century. But it’s so beautiful. There’s something soft and romantic and innocent about that era. I see now exactly why this is my uniform of dress. Even still what is wrong with wearing this for an evening? It’s modest, delicate… 

I think this is the first time I have ever felt beautiful. Despite how much I adore my dress now that I’ve seen it on, I am actually a bit excited to try on other things. 

When my white dress drops to the floor I am even more shocked by what I see. I’d counted the hickeys on my body the other morning but seeing them all together, looking at my milky skin broken up by purplish red marks, is much more shocking. And much more…ugly. If I didn’t know where they came from I’d think there was something wrong with me.

The first dress is mauve pink chiffon that ends a few inches above the ankle. It’s got a sweetheart neckline and cinched waist, something out of the 1950s. It fits perfectly, but doesn’t cover the marks on my neck and collarbone. Besides, it doesn’t fit the sleeve constraint of “two fingers width- minimum” that was set for me.

“Did you get one on yet?” John asks impatiently.

“The pink is too revealing.” I say, a bit sad that it’s so. 

“What? Come on, let me see.”

“No, John. It... doesn’t fit right.” I lie.

“Fine. Try another.”

I don’t know which one to try. The pink really was my favorite. Now all the others just look dull.

“Which one?” I ask.

“Red. Just so you can say you got it over with.”

I take the red. It’s really too obnoxious for me. I don’t think that it will look nice. I pull it down over my head. The garment hugs my body like a glove. The sleeves are fine. The neckline is fine. Even the length is fine. But every curve (or lack thereof) can be seen. I hate it. I look like a club girl. 

“This one’s a definite no.” I tell John.

“It can’t be that bad. Show me.”

I pull it off over my head. “No. It’s not right.”

“Just let me take a look!”

“No-”

“Come on-”

He opens the curtain without my permission, my body completely exposed.

“John!” I gasp.

He can see everything in the mirror in front of me. All the little red and purple marks surrounding my bare chest. Time freezes as I watch his blue eyes flicker in the disgusting fluorescent overhead lights. He isn’t surprised. That’s the worst of it. He looks at me like I am exactly what he was expecting to see. My heart pangs inside its cage.

He just stands there, not in shock but in predicted discovery.

If I could turn back time I would.

“Close the fucking curtain!” I yell, spinning around to do it myself despite my own command.

I want to hide. I just want to hide. John knows. He may have suspected but now he has proof. And there is nothing I can do to take that moment back. I want him to forget. To erase it. Wipe him clean like a flashdrive dragged to delete. 

He twists the knife in my side when he says, “I knew it.”

I sink into the floor in the corner of the changing room, covering myself up with my beloved white dress. I hold my breath and watch John’s feet shift in the gap between the curtain and the floor. 

“Well, what else have you got?” He asks as if nothing is wrong. It’s back to business already. I don’t think he understands the shock and embarrassment he’s caused me.

“I’m done.” I say. “I want to go back.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Rachel, I hate to break it to you but it’s not like I wasn’t suspecting it.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” I bite back. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

I watch him tap his foot. “So that’s why he wants you covered up. Huh.”

I look down at my chest and pull my white dress over myself further. I wish I had never taken it off. It was protecting me. It hid all my secrets. It was keeping me safe. Now I’m not sure if I will ever be safe again.

“We can put makeup on them.” John suggests. “It’ll be dark and there’ll be candlelight. You won’t even be able to tell.”

“John I don’t want to.”

“Rachel I won’t say anything! I won’t tell him. We will keep it cool.”

“I don’t care!” I exclaim. “I don’t trust you and… no one was supposed to know. And it’ll be all my fault… but I guess that’s just what you wanted… isn’t it?”

“Rachel, no. That’s not-“ he cuts off his sentence with a groan of frustration. 

“I want to go back. Forget this whole thing.”

I hear him sigh. He finally submits to my request. “Alright. Meet me in the car.”

* * *

 

John pauses for a moment after turning the car on. 

“Look, I’m sorry for… for opening the curtain like that. I shouldn’t have been so brash.”

I know John isn’t really sorry. The evidence he uncovered was simply too valuable. He finally has something he can truly use against me. 

I stare at my reflection in the dusty rear view mirror, gray and dull and sad. That beauty I thought I saw inside the changing room doesn’t exist. It’s like she never existed. I don’t know if she ever will exist. Sometimes I feel like there’s two of me, and one constantly bullies and berates the other. I am responsible for my own self hate. But sometimes I live as the victim and others I live as my own abuser. The weaker Rachel doesn’t understand and will never understand what she did to deserve all this. My soul broke in two when I lost my mother and the two halves began their war against each other when my father first hit me. I want to make both sides of myself work together. But one attacks the other.

“Why do you hate me?” I ask myself in the dirty glass, watching my own lips move, talking to myself and being talked to.

John thinks I’m talking to him but I am not. “You’re my brother’s whore.”

I turn to him, too bitter for tears. The dark and violent side of me is present in my flesh, her mute, weak, spineless twin sister stuck inside the mirror still asking why. “And the last girl? Wasn’t she yours?”

Out of nowhere he slaps me forcefully across my cheek, his rings cutting into my skin. I let it sting. I swallow hard and absorb the action. I am used to taking hits. Like how a dancer gets callouses on her feet and toes and doesn’t feel the pain anymore.

Now that he’s silenced me John speaks. “She was supposed to be his too. He didn’t want her. She came to me looking for peace.”

I can’t imagine Joseph doing that. He has his moments of negligence but I know him to be a good man. And I know John not to be. “Don’t bother defending your reputation with me, John.”

“You should do a better job of trying to hold yours together around me, Rachel.”

He’s always the good guy, isn’t he? He blames everyone else for his own misbehavior. And his cunning keeps his halo hovering above his head. But I see his horns. And his tail. I know what a demon he can be. 

“It was you who barged into the changing room.” I put matter-of-factly. 

He knows how to play this game of wrong and right. He’s too good and twisting the guilt in a crime. “There wouldn’t be an issue if you had nothing to hide. And you know what’s funny? You aren’t as bad looking as I thought you’d be.”

Thought I’d be? Well then, he must have been doing some thinking.

“Oh, so you’ve been wondering?” 

“What? No-“ He denies.

I keep pressing it. It’s fun to watch him deny what he so clearly admitted. “Have you just been dying to know?”

“I never-“

Oh how interesting it would be if all this time he was just _jealous_.

“Do you _think_ about me John?”

He hits me again. A guy like him would say I was asking for it. Pain is a punishment. Problem is the people being punished often don’t know what they’re being punished for. 

It was always like that with my dad. It wasn’t that I did something wrong, it was that I did something that didn’t fit his drugged up version of how things should occur. Even though I hated being hit I was able to forgive, in a sense, because I knew that the man who was doing it was _not_ my father. But John is John. He is himself.

“Only about what a rat you are.” He says through clenched teeth.

That’s how I see him too. “I guess we’re on the same page then.”

He struggles to contain his rage. “I tried to restart things with you today.”

I shouldn’t push him. He’s going to react violently. But I can’t control my bitterness. “Oh yeah. Barging in on a girl while she is changing. Great way to restart.”

“Can we put it past us? Let’s just go to the next place.”

He hits me twice and calls me a whore and he wants to put it past us? No. This excursion is over.

“I want to go back. I’m done.”

“But you need something to wear.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Dammit, Rachel! I’m arranging this whole thing, spending my own time and my own money _for you_. Can’t you suck up your insecurities and do as I say for once? What else do you want from me?”

Insecurities that he pokes at day after day. He’s worse than the girls I knew at school and the men I’d meet at the bar. “Respect would be nice.” I admit.

He groans, eyes darting to the road. “That’s a hard thing to have for a girl with no backbone.”

That’s just who I am. It’s who I’ve always been and who I will always be. Missing a backbone is one thing. Missing a heart is another. I have one. And right now, it’s hurting.

“And for a girl who’s screwing my brother for room and board.” He tacks on brutally.

“Don’t say that.” I deflect.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

It’s not. I hope it’s not. “He cares about me.” I’m talking to myself again.

John shakes his head. “Let yourself think that. Go right ahead.”

“Don’t assume he doesn’t care about anyone just because _you_ don’t!” I shout.

His eyes change. Back to that childish look full of trauma and fear and heartbreak. “Don’t assume that I’ve got no heart, Rachel.”

I can’t tell if he’s acting or not. “Hard not to assume that with the way you’ve treated me. And what about the other girl? Did she have to suffer the same disrespect only to become your slut in the end?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The Sheriff asked John about a woman named Selena. 

“Who was she?” I ask.

He hits me again. Just because I asked a question. A simple question. 

I asked my father if I could go get my cuts looked at and he hit me.

I asked my father if I could stay home from school and he hit me.

I asked my father if everything was alright and he hit me.

And because he hit me I stopped asking. But strength has to dwell somewhere within me.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

His rings draw more blood from my cheek. I won’t let his violence cut me down.

“Who was she?” I press again.

Another blow. I don’t give up.

“Who was she?”

“We called her Faith. Just like we call you. But you deserve it even less than she did.”

Finally I am victorious. Finally I am not silenced by brutality. It’s one small victory. But it’s more than I’ve ever known.

“Was her name Selena?” I ask, feeling alive from the strength I’ve discovered.

I know that it was her name based off the way that John’s fist clenches on the steering wheel and how he bites down on his lip. Having my answer I look back out the window, once again at my reflection in the rear view mirror.

The weaker girl is still there. She stares blankly. “Oh.” she says, flat and indifferent like a doll with a hollow, soulless voice. I watch the blood trickle down her cheek and drop onto the pure white lace. She lets it soak and lets it stain.“Look what you’ve done to me.”

He starts the engine and speeds out of the parking lot. The light from the afternoon shines into my eyes. I keep them open and let them burn, just like Jacob did as he watched the flames dance. 

“All I want is to be loved.” The girl in the mirror says aloud to me. “For God’s sake that’s all I want.”

Maybe that’s all that John wants too. But he makes up for a lack of love with more hatred than humanly possible.

“If that’s what you’re looking for you haven’t found the right person.” He huffs. “He doesn’t love you. And he never will.”

I let my cheek sting but not his words. I don’t say anything. And I won’t say anything. Joseph will see me like this and I won’t have to say anything. John will get what he deserves. 

* * *

 

We get back to the compound. I exit the car without a word, beginning the heavy walk back to my cabin.

John pulls me aside. “You run straight to your room and clean that up, you hear me?”

I don’t react. I’ve fully retreated inside myself. Curled up like a roly poly.

He hits me again. This time I’ve said and done nothing. I guess even silence is a crime in his eyes.

“Hey!” Jacob’s voice booms from somewhere across the grass. I hear his wide, heavy footsteps as he runs over here.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” He asks his youngest brother. I step back from both of them, afraid.

“I was right.” John laughs cynically. “She’s his whore. She’s his fucking whore!”

My insides turn to stone to prevent the words from hurting. I feel powerless to stop the secret I was instructed to keep from spreading like wildfire.

“You think that gives you any fucking right to hit her?” Jacob yells. “She’s just a kid!”

“I don’t think you heard me. She’s his whore.”

Why don’t you tell the whole world, John? It’s like watching my life unravel like woven cotton and fall into a pile of thread.

Jacob roars over him. “Don’t call her that! She don’t deserve it! She’s just a kid! And there’s people out here! They don’t need to know!”

John escalates the conflict. “You don’t care that they’re sleeping together?”

Jacob brings it back down, low and seething, a snarl. “Shut your fuckin mouth or I’ll shut it for ya. We’ll settle this inside like grown men.”

“I don’t want to settle it!”

Jacob raises a powerful hand and grips John’s shirt, pulling his pretty face close to his rough and rugged one, flaming eyes scorching him. “Then _leave_.”

He releases him with a shove and immediately grabs my arm. “C’mon, kid. Let’s fix you up.”

* * *

 

“Does it hurt?” Jacob asks, holding a disinfecting wipe to my cheekbone.

I barely shake my head. I’m staring at a spot on the wall in his cabin, sitting in a chair with a fur draped over the back of it. He knees beside me. The place is cluttered, tool kits and knives and guns and maps everywhere. It’s dark and smells musky, much like he does. 

“You’re tougher than I thought.” He tells me.

The corner of my lips turn up ever so slightly, but I’m sad. “I just… I tune it all out, after a while.”

He lets out a long sigh. “I know. Me too.”

I can barely hear the sizzling in my skin as the wipe kills off the germs in the cuts. It does sting an awful lot.

“Look, kid…” Jacob says. “I just want you to know… I ain’t judgin’ ya for none of it.”

“What do you mean?” I mumble.

Another sigh. He pulls the wipe away.“You know what I mean, kid.”

My eyes find his. They’re the eyes of someone I can trust. Someone who cares. Someone who protects. He has good intentions. And I can see that he means what he says. There’s no judgement at all. 

“Do you ever feel…” I begin, not knowing what I was going to say or why. “Do you ever feel like God just… drops you in a place or puts you in a situation… sticks you in a maze and then leaves you behind and you have to try and…”

“Yeah, kid. I sure do.”

Funny how we, two people completely unalike in appearance and age and experience, can relate to each other. He doesn’t have to tell me his story just yet. I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need to know. I’m sure I will hear it one day, but for now it’s good to have a friend.

As the pain from my cuts lessen my insides begin to uncurl, turning back into that fragile, turbulent water with the ever changing tide. The clock ticks and with each passing second I see Joseph in my mind’s eye. Moment by moment. Memory by memory. Five weeks already feels like five years. Maybe it’s because I’m young and time moves much slower for me. I feel so far from the girl that I was when I first saw him in the chapel at the ranch. I never thought someone like him would love me. But does he? Does he really? Hiding our relationship means hiding my happiness. Keeping it all a secret means it doesn’t exist to the outside world. And if it doesn’t live there, in the scope of reality which everyone is privy to, if there is no proof, if all the evidence can be hidden or destroyed, does it even exist at all? If a marriage has no witnesses then who is to say that it ever happened?

Well now there are two who know. Both his brothers. The very people I was certain he never wanted to know a thing. And I don’t feel any safer. Our love doesn’t feel any more real.

 I really could be just another one of his girls. Just a ship passing through. Someone to spend lonely nights with and forget about when it’s convenient. That’s not fair. I never want to lose him. 

All I know is that I love him completely. And all I want is the same thing in return.

“I’m not just his whore, right Jake?” My voice trembles.

He’s opening the first of three band-aids, peeling the sides off and positioning it on my face. His touch is so soft and caring, contrary to his entire disposition, just like he were petting a kitten. It makes me feel safe.

“Sweetie, you’re so much more.”

I can’t believe I was afraid of him when I first met him. He’s one of those people with really tough outsides but a soft center if you’re willing to dig deep enough. Still I really don’t want to cry in front of him. I try my hardest not to. 

“I’m sorry I lied to you.” I whisper.

He puts the second band aid on and stops for a moment. “You said what you had to say. I get it. I know. Sometimes we have to do the wrong thing just to survive.”

I just want a hug. I really want a hug.

“Don’t cry, you’ll unstick the band aids.”

That makes me laugh. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For looking out for me.”

He rubs the final band aid, securing it in place. “Girl like you shouldn’t have a problem finding someone who’d do that. Hell…”

Something comes over him. I can’t tell if it is a wish or a memory. His heart grows heavy with a thought he shouldn’t think and a truth he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Ya know somethin, sweetie?”

“What?” I ask.

“I loved someone once who I shouldn’t have loved. Not ‘cause she didn’t deserve it. She was… beyond worthy. In all ways. But society said we shouldn’t be together. And I was stupid enough to listen. I regret that every day. So I guess… in some ways… I get what you’re going through. I’m not saying it’s the same thing. It’s not. But don’t let John or whatever, whomever the fuck stop you. As long as you’re happy, keep it up. I mean that. But only as long as you’re happy.”

Unable to hold in my longing for comfort, I throw my arms around him and hide my wet eyes in his neck. “Thank you. Thank you.”

It takes him a moment. He’s not sure how to react to my embrace. Slowly and awkwardly his arms circle me. He pats my back. “Sure, kid. It’s nothing.”

I pull away, sparing him from the interaction. But when I do I feel empty. Looking into his eyes I think he feels empty too. 

“Um…” I say awkwardly, fumbling with my hand to reference to my bandaged cheek. “Don’t… don’t tell Joseph it was John. Please.”

His eyes narrow in confusion. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

I’ve changed my mind about telling on John. Truth is that I am afraid of him. More afraid of him than I ever was of Jacob. “Because…” I sigh. “Just- just don’t.”

“Kid-”

“I don’t want to create any more conflict.”

“You ain’t creating none of the conflict, it’s John!” Jacob says loudly. “He should know better. It ain’t right.”

I know he wants to protect me but I must try to keep my warrior on guard and not on offense. “I know. I know. But for now… let’s keep this between the three of us.”

“I don’t understand why, but… if that’s what you want. If that’s what you really want.”

I give him a quick kiss on his bumpy cheek. “Thank you, Jake.”


	10. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Implied rape in this chapter. As usual, nothing is explicit. I just like to be courteous to more sensitive readers (but... if you've made it THIS far... you should be alright. But I don't wanna assume anything so here is the warning anyway)
> 
> I hope that everyone is alright with a slightly shorter chapter... once again it was twice the length but I felt the second half needed more work so I chopped it in half. 
> 
> I actually wrote this in the span of a few hours over the course of the last two days. It just kinda spilled out of me. I am trying to stick to my outline and have specific things happen in each chapter but this one just unfolded and I am honestly okay with that... I think you guys will like it and I hope I'm right!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the continued feedback and support. Reading all of your comments and even just getting an email that a guest left a kudo on this makes me so happy y'all don't even understand...Special shout out to Wealthywetsunny for commenting on every chapter ever since what... chapter 4??? That's a serious commitment and I appreciate it so much <333 And of course @your_taxidermy I probably wouldn't still be here if it weren't for your endless aggressive validation/motivation. Love ya.

The moon is high and the sky sparkles with stars. The fire glows bright and beautiful in the heart of our community. The smell of burning wood fills the night time air. Square hay bales surround the flame, forming seats, although many of us have chosen to stand, kneel, or sit on the floor. I sit on on a bale myself, with Jacob on my right, towering beside me, arms crossed and eyes on watch. He still stands like a soldier. Awaiting orders. Like he’d be ready to drop into push ups on command. John is on the opposite side of the circle, half of him hidden by the flames, angry eyes glowing in the orange light, an elbow on his knee and fingers preening the corner of his moustache. I think he figured out it was best to keep his distance. 

Joseph walks around the fire, taking in all of us as he preaches, trying to reach every single heart in the circle.  Everyone is enthralled by him, but I am a teacher’s pet. I sit up straight with my eyes shining in enthusiastic engagement, eagerly listening and hanging off of every word. 

When he comes back around to my side of the fire, I try to keep my right cheek hidden. I pull strands of hair over the band aids, and keep my chin down and tilted to the side. 

“We must not forget that the world as we know it is only temporary. That nothing we are looking at right now will be around after the coming of the Collapse. The earth will rebuild itself brand new, as God chooses it to be. And we are his people. His chosen people. Those who don’t understand us, who resist us, who remain willfully ignorant and hateful of the beautiful family we are creating will be burned to ash. They will all be forgotten.” His eyes find mine. “Even those of us who we call our friends. Those we love and care for and say they love us but don’t approve of us being here, they will be forgotten. Our mothers, our fathers, our brothers, our sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. All will be forgotten. We can not cling to those who will not come to us because they will be dust in the wind in the end.”

I know there is a reason he spoke those words straight to me. He never does anything without purpose. Maybe it has to do with Tracey trying to take me back to my real family. More like my personal hell. I swallow. Surely Joseph must know that all my devotion lies with him. I’ve given up everything for this life. 

Despite Joseph being the center of attention I feel other eyes on me. Judgmental eyes. Hurtful eyes. 

“You have to understand.” Joseph says to Jacob now. I use this as my chance to find those hateful eyes. “This is not something I want. This is something that must be done. This is how it has to be. Those who don’t believe will die. Those who don’t trust will die. Those who do not have the strength will die.”

I shouldn’t be surprised to catch John glaring at me across the fire. His blue eyes want to kill me. Drawing blood wasn’t enough. He has to have it all. I look away from him and back at my lover, who is still speaking straight to my protector. 

“...So we must be strong when they will not.” He looks back at me. “Have faith when they will not.” He turns around, projecting to the whole group. “Do the right thing when they will not. Because it is not them who will rebuild the world, it is us. Only us.”

Jacob swallows and shifts his heavy boots, as if more weight were piled on his shoulders by his brother's words. I feel his tension. I glance at him. Lips are pursed tightly. Jaw is clenched. Eyes are darkened with duty. 

When no one applauds or cheers, Joseph feels the need to go on. “You might be asking yourselves: what can I do? How can I help? How can I save them?” He gives pause, allowing the crowd to think before he tells them the answer. When all still stare blankly he makes their duties clear. “Invite them. Intice them. Offer them peace. Write letters to them. Tell them where you are and how wonderful it is here. You can save them. And that is a noble deed, my children. Pull at their heartstrings. Make them want to come here. If you love them, that is what you must do. If you don’t want them to burn that is what you must do. Or else all you can do is pray that their lives end before the world ends. Let their passings be swift and painless. Otherwise more suffering than imaginable awaits their lost souls.”

I am compelled to speak. I don’t know where it comes from. The words come out of me as an uncontrolled impulse. “But here they can be happy.” Everyone turns. Everyone stares. I have stolen the limelight. Even Joseph looks at me. 

When he says nothing I take it as permission to go on. “Here they can find peace.” I swallow. “Here they will be safe. Here they will be forgiven and here they will be born anew.” I go quiet. It’s like I was possessed for a moment. By what or who I do not know. But I spoke. During _his_ speech. It was uncalled for. It came out of nowhere. Someone in the audience cheers. Several others join, clapping and shouting things like ‘Amen’ and ‘well said, Sister!’ and ‘There’s the truth of it!’

I look to Joseph. He’s the only approval I need. Pride and relief are mixed on his face. He’s happy to finally hear a response from the crowd.

* * *

The bonfire is over. Everyone has gone to bed. Joseph paces my room, still dressed, ranting at me. I lie with my face pressed against the pillow, hiding the band aids and bruises. 

“...it’s like they listen but they do not hear. And if they hear they don’t understand. They’re focused, they’re intentive, but they don’t _react_!” He says with exasperation.

I sigh, trying to be supportive but very, very sleepy.  “They pay close attention. They care. It’s just not... not reaching them.”

He pulls out the rubber band securing his hair. “If only there was a way.” He shakes his head, still fired up, unkempt strands falling around his face like a wild man. “If only there was a way that I could _make_ them see. That I could _force_ them-- but no, no, no, that’s not right.” He stops himself, contains himself. “It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t. But they need to see. They need to truly understand. Something has to shake them to the core and make them _believe_. Wholeheartedly.”

“I agree.” I yawn. “I understand. But you can’t...you can’t _force_ people, Joseph. You can’t take them against their will.”

He stops pacing and shakes his head. He looks at me. “You _always_ understand.” He says gratefully. “You are _always_ invested in what I am saying, little dove. I never have to wonder. I know you are. I wish all of them were like you. I wish all of them _felt_ my words. Even you… tonight, when you spoke...you put it better than I could. Thank you.”

“I guess I have a more active imagination. When you talk about things… I see them right before my eyes. And as far as butting in… I didn’t mean to. I didn’t plan it. I just...felt the need.” I shut my eyes, hoping this conversation is close to an end. 

He sighs. “Regardless. Thank you. I mean it. Sometimes I feel they need a… a softer voice, an inviting, feminine voice… a mother-- no. Not… not really that. More of a shoulder to cry on. Someone who doesn’t intimidate them like I do. You… you’re so gentle and pure. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started coming to you to confess.”

I chuckle at the thought. Me? A confidant? I don’t know. If I can’t console myself how could I console others?

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to hold in all their troubles.” I mumble. “You’re much better at that.”

He comes over to the bed. I scoot over, careful to keep my face hidden, making room for him. He sits in the open space and extends a gentle hand toward my head, petting my hair. “You’re so sensitive… one of the things I love about you.”

Love about me? Were there multiple things to be loved about me? _Does_ he love me?

He goes on aimlessly, talking to me like he were talking to God, asking dozens of questions before he finds the answer to one. “What do you think? What can I do? How can I prevent losing them?”

Unlike God I can’t take infinite questions without feeling overwhelmed. “I don’t...don’t really know.” I say quietly. Sleep and the soft strokes of his hand weigh my eyelids back down. 

“Do you remember what I said?” He asks. “About free will?”

That was a long time ago. I think perhaps the night that I met him. “About how there isn’t time to wait on it?” I ask.

“Exactly. See, you’re smart. You remember. You listen.” 

I nod, burying my face deeper into the pillow. “Uh huh.”

“How can I get rid of free will?” He asks. “How? How can I dissolve it? How… you’re submissive. You listen. You don’t question. You just obey. How? Why only you? Why not all of them?”

Submissive. Unquestioning. Obedient. I guess that has always been me. Those words are great traits applied to a pet, to a servant, to some kind of soulless animal. But to me? They aren’t such a good thing. I guess though, that in his eyes, they are.

When I try to speak I yawn again. “Maybe it’s because… I never had free will. So you don’t have to worry about that with me… because… because…”

He finally pays attention to my sleepy state. “Oh, my poor girl. Have I worn you out with all my rambling?”

I’m actually half asleep. Too tired for words. I nod weakly and shift to the other side.

“What happened to your face?” 

Almost completely out, once the words finally hit me I jolt up. 

“Nothing!” I pull a pillow over my head. “Nothing.”

He tries to pry the cushion off me. “Let me see.”

I hold it tighter to my face. “No.”

“Let me _see_.”

“No.”

“Sweetie.”

Fuck him and his pet names. They always get to me. I limp my arms, allowing him to pull the pillow off. 

He traces his fingers over the band aids. “What happened here?”

“I fell.”

“You fell?”

“On gravel.”

“Sideways?”

“No. I mean yes.”

“Multiple times?”

“Just once. Really hard.”

“No you didn’t. Faith, what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

He kisses the injured skin. “Tell me.”

His beard tickles. I giggle. “No.” I don’t know why I am resisting.

“Tell me.” He says in a sing song voice, brushing his beard against my skin more deliberately now that he’s gotten a laugh out of me.

“Nooooooo.” I mimic him.

Now he takes his fingers and starts to poke and wiggle them in my sides. I burst into giggles at the contact. 

“Tell me!” He persists.

I shriek with laughter. “I can’t!”

He tickles me more. So hard that I am gasping for breath. 

“John!” I finally yelp, completely contradicted by my uncontrollable reaction to his tickles. “John!”

He freezes immediately. “John?”

I breathe hard and catch my breath. It’s out. There is no point of hiding it now. “J-John.”

Obsessively, compulsively, he brushes strands of hair off my cheek and examines the damage very closely, checking for each and every possible scratch, bruise, or disfiguration. “John… he did this to you?”

“He did.”

Joseph grows cold. He freezes with icey anger.

“John…” he lets out a sickened chuckle. “John…”

I don’t know what’s going on with him. “It’s okay. I’m fine.” I say, hoping that covers it.

“He…” he shakes his head, unable to find the words. “Why?”

I could tell him the truth. That I provoked him. That I pressed his buttons. That I was “asking” for it. But I don’t want to. John doesn’t deserve any pity. 

I decide to play the victim I know I am deep down. “He got… jealous when he saw…”

“Saw what?” Joseph demands.

I trail my fingers over my collarbones, the thin strap of my nightgown falling off my shoulder in the process. “T-these.” I say, referring to the specks of burst blood vessels.

His eyes examine the skin he's marked as his. I watch his face fall like a child seeing a scratch on his favorite toy. I see betrayal in his eyes. Something tells me that John hitting me isn't enough to get Joseph to change things. To stop him. Joseph is too forgiving. He is too kind. He loves his little brother too much. Even when he breaks his dolls.

But to have his brother abuse the perfect porcelain creatures. To find out he used them in a way that was solely his. _Only_ his. That would be unforgivable. I am certain of it.

“He forced himself on me.” I lie.

Joseph’s breathing his short and tense. His lips twitch. His jaw clenches. The light leaves his eyes. “Did he touch you?”

It would put the odds in my favor if I lied. But I am not sure that I should. Who would it harm? Certainly not me. It couldn’t be me. How could anyone get mad at a girl for getting touched my someone without her consent? It isn’t really a _lie_ . John did touch me. He _hit_ me. That counts… right?

“Faith. You have to answer me.” Joseph says. “Did he touch you?”

If I lie I am certain that I will be protected from John from here on out. That he will never be able to come near me without a third person in attendance. I will be safe from his brutality, his rage, his remarks. So I lie. 

“Yes.” I mumble.

Joseph straightens himself. Shifts away from me. I see the muscles of his jaw pulsing as he contains his anger. Not a word of comfort. Not a gesture of tenderness. Just a withdrawn, wrathful man. I hate it when he pulls away. Fearing I have done something wrong I further the lie, hoping that more details will incite pity that I apparently haven't earned already.

“He touched me.” I say. “He opened the changing room curtain… I was undressed… and he… he put his hands on me… grabbed my-” I feign heartbreak, as if it were simply too hard to continue. 

“And you _let_ him?”

I swallow, shocked. “What?”

“You _let_ him touch you?”

“I- no, Joseph, that’s not-”

A deadly stare. “How dare you.” He seethes. 

“He _hurt_ me!” I say. How on earth could this be my fault? None of this is my fault! Half of it isn’t true. Half of it never happened, but… I am the one with bandages on. I am the one with bruises. It can’t be my fault. I can not be to blame. 

“I thought we had an understanding.” He says darkly.

I reach for him. I take his hand. “We do. I never wanted it to happen, I-”

He flings my hand out of his. “I give you _everything_ , and this is how you repay me? By letting my brother lay hands on you?”

I’m in shallow water. Lies give us nothing to pull from. I have to make something up. “I didn’t let him! He forced himself on me! He grabbed me and when I tried to stop him h-he hit me.”

I gasp as he lunges on top of me, pinning my shoulders down hard. 

“And then what did he do?” He demands like a true masochist, begging for every detail, for fuel to his fire.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. “I-I-I-I-”

He lets go of one of my shoulders and grabs my breast hard. “Did he do this?”

His grope is uncalled for and the pain is shocking. I whimper, unable to think. “Y-yes?” But he didn’t. Why am I still lying?

Joseph wrenches my legs open. It triggers awful flashbacks. Painful memories emerge before me. Dirty backs of vans that smelt of sweat and semen. Bruises and broken skin. Bad music that camouflaged my screams.

“Stop!” I gasp. It’s like I don’t remember where I am. I don’t know who I am with. All I know is that I am being touched and I don’t want to be and I don’t know how to stop it. 

He grips my thighs so hard it hurts the muscle. “Did he do this?”

“No!” I yell. “No no no no no!”

Suddenly I am in another memory. My dad is throwing plates at me as I run up the staircase, seeking safety in my room. The crash of shattering ceramic rings in my ears, making me duck instinctually and crunch my shoulders. I shut the door and use my body weight to keep him from opening it. His brute force is too strong. He pushes it open and my body is flung into my nightstand.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Rachel Eileen.” 

I don’t remember him saying that. I do not know who is talking to me. What voices I am hearing. 

I’m on my bed in my room back in my old house. And there are hands on me that I recognize as my dad’s. One of them covers my mouth as the other violates me.

“Stop!” I writhe and kick and scream. “Stop it, daddy!  Stop it! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I love you. I’ll be good. I’m sorry!” 

“Nothing is happening. You’re safe.”

My father’s lips don’t move. I don’t know where the voice is coming from.

“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t do it! Please, daddy, don’t!”

“Faith, wake up!” 

Who is that? Who is speaking.

“Wake up, Faith!”

I do. My eyes spring open and I sit up unnaturally quick like one of those dummies on Halloween, my breath heaving inside my chest, heart pounding at a rate I have never felt before. There is sweat all over my skin. I grip the bedsheets in unopenable fists. I look around the room. No one is on top of me. It’s late. Later than I remember it being.

Joseph is next to me, body beneath the sheets. He strokes my back. He’s not angry. He’s not on top of me. My dad is nowhere to be seen.

“Breathe.” He says gently. “It was only a dream.”

I am shaken to my core. I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember what was a dream and what was real. Where did reality end and the dream begin? I don’t remember how much I told him. I don’t even know if I remember the truth.

I sob. Loud and ugly like a crying baby. I don’t understand. I feel like I’ve awoken in an alternate reality.

He pulls my shaking body into his lap. I cry harder. 

“Shhhh.” He soothes. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

I wrap my arms around him tightly and continue to sob.

“You dad isn’t here, alright? He’s not here. And I will never let him near you ever again. You’re safe, my angel. You’re safe. It was only a dream.”

It takes time for his loving words to register. Was I talking in my sleep? How much of it was a dream? How much of it was reality? I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. But I need to.

“Did I tell you what happened to my face?” I ask him through tears.

He rubs the back of my head, fingers tangling in my messy hair. “You didn’t tell me. Jacob told me. It’s alright. Don’t worry. Everything is just fine.”

Jacob told him? When? I don’t understand. “Wh-what?”

“He told me earlier today, not long after you got back.”

“Wh-at did he s-say?” I ask.

“That you tripped and fell. Hit a rocky patch on the road. Everything is fine.”

So he knew nothing about John. 

He continues to soothe me. “You just had a bad dream, sweetheart.”

I’m still shaken. “I don’t understand.”

He sighs. “You might still have some drugs in your system. You haven’t been sober for very long. Your mind is playing tricks on you, that’s all. I’m here. I’ve got you. You don’t have to be afraid. Everyone here loves you. We will all take care of you. You’ve got nothing to fear, dearest one.”

Slowly but surely my breathing normalizes, finally calming down. He’s probably right. It’s all in my mind.

“You’ve gone through so much.” He says. “And in such a short amount of time. And I’m sure you’re worried about that... that stupid dinner tomorrow night. You’re stressed. And you’re still recovering. But don’t worry. It will all be alright. I’m right here. I will always be right here.”

I appreciate him so much for trying to sympathize. This is the opposite of the man in my dream. I relax into the comfort of his words, into the relief, the feeling of peace. He is a good person. He’s a kind person. He’d never hurt me. It was all a dream. He wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t hurting me. He’d never hurt me. He will never hurt me. It. Was. Just. A. Dream.

But it felt all too real.

“It…” I don’t know what to say.

“Hm?” He asks me to go on.

I swallow the last of my sobs. “It… wasn’t real.”

“No. It wasn’t.” He assures.

“Please don’t hurt me.” I whimper, still afraid that the version of him I saw in my dream might actually lurk in this dimension, and might one day, under the right circumstance, come out from the shadows.

He kisses the side of my head, lips and nose pressed into my hair. “I would _never._ ”

I believe him.

I listen to the beat of his heart and the breath in his lungs. He is a human being. He is a good person. He is a kind person. He will never hurt me.

“S-sing to me.” I ask like a child.

He does. Softly. Sweetly. Soothingly.

As I drift back to sleep in the sanctuary that is his arms, there are things I want to say. Words I need to hear more than he does. They’re felt but unspoken. I pray that they’re shared.  

It’s a mumbling tired thought. It emerges uncensored and uncalled for. A feeling I feel all the time, a feeling I try not to let ooze out of my every pore. Something I restrain on the daily, contain and control. But tonight it comes, whole and complete, straight from my sleepy lips, breathless and beautiful like a fresh corpse with color still in its cheeks.

“I love you.”

God, could any sentence be more tragic?

The silence that follows is hollowing. I try to stay awake and wait for the phrase to return, but sleep comes too swift.


	11. Daddy Dearest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right?  
> Enjoy <3

Morning comes quickly. The commotion does too. 

It starts off ordinarily enough. Our people are about every corner of our compound making busy at the crack of dawn, resisting the ever tempting sin of sloth. I sit in the shade, flowers crumbling at my fingertips as I try weaving them into a wreath or garland, I can’t tell which, and at this rate no one will ever know. That’s how untalented I am. Looking around, I feel useless. A group of men and a few strong women work together to build a new house not far from the church. About five or six sit in rowboats on the river, casting their rods and awaiting a bite. A few pick fruit off the trees, singing as they work. It’s a chipper tune about the Father. 

_“He once was a peach-picker, and he toil’d in the sun_

_He reaped the orchard on his own, until the day was done_

_His hands were hard and calloused ‘cause he didn’t have a choice_

_He served so many non-believers, til he heard the voice_

_Now he’s our Shepherd, and we’re his flock_

_Now he’s our Captain; our ship’s about to dock_

_Now he’s our keeper, to keep us safe from Wrath_

_Now he’s our Father, he’s gonna lead us down the path”_

Their voices are decent but their optimism is revolting. I should probably feel uplifted and enlightened. But I’m somehow so disconnected from it all. I don’t know Joseph as his followers do. It is hard for me to relate to the thought of being a sheep, just another organism marching through an endless sea of white. That is not me. I am not just another lamb in the flock. At least I don’t think I am. 

He sits a few feet away on the same porch step, the distance between us innocent and appropriate enough for the outside world to see. But inside I ache. It’s not easy keeping a secret when you’re bursting at the seams with feelings. I curse myself for saying those three words last night. I wish I never did. It was difficult pretending that nothing was going on before, but now it’s almost impossible. I can’t look him in the eye. I am embarrassed by my own feelings. But it’s only been a day. 

In one hand, he holds a bible, in the other, his chin. His lips cradle a pencil between them. Blue eyes flick across the verses in thought, eyes searching for wisdom, for inspiration, for truth. As I watch him, the harvesters continue their song.

“ _Every plague that fell on him fell like a demon’s kiss_

_He suffered countless hardships, then God declared his wish”_

That last line needs rewriting. Badly. It falls off the tongue with force. It’s awkward. It’s difficult to sing. There has to be something better. I can’t help but think of how a song I’d write about him would be so different, so much more personal. Something about finding light in the darkness. Something about the wind in the trees, that sound that sends shivers down my spine and reminds me of his touch. And those white flowers that send me right to heaven. 

“It must be strange hearing songs sung about you.” I say passively, eyes still looking in his direction.

He turns the page of his Bible, giving me no glance. Perhaps he’s just as uncomfortable as I am.  “Hm? I didn’t realize they were.” He’s too focused to be listening.

I keep quiet and I keep to myself. I look down at the pile of dying flowers in my lap and fuss with them further. 

He continues. “Now that you mention it… I’ve never given it much thought. But I’ll admit the praise is… pleasant.”

I guess if all the other prophets and politicians can handle it then so can he. Some people are made for this sort of thing.

“They’ll write songs about you one day.” He says out of the blue. 

Despite myself I look at him. I can’t see why that would be true. “You think so?”

For a moment his eyes leave the page and find mine. “I do.”

We see each other. Eyes filled with want. A split second is too long, too filled. Back to work for both of us.

The pickers continue their song. 

_“They once locked him in prison, though his soul was free from sin_

_They fed him almost nothing until his bones were frail and thin”_

That shocks me. I resist the urge to look at him again, gluing my eyes to my lap. “You’ve been in prison?”

I hear him chuckle. “Lyricists are prone to exaggerations.”

“Were you?” I ask. 

“Maybe for a while.”

I can’t help it. I look at him now. “Joseph.”

He exhales. “A short time.”

“What did you do?” 

He sighs and turns the page again, eyes leaving the words for the briefest moment. “I don’t remember.” 

That’s a lie. I know it and he knows it. 

Neither of us can tolerate looking at each other, but neither of us can focus, either. I watch his line of sight move across the ground to the hem of my dress, up the skirt to the mess of flowers between my lap and fingers.

“What are you doing?” He changes the subject, still avoiding my eyes. 

 I sigh. “Something.”

He laughs at me and looks away again. “Something. What will that something be?”

“It will be nothing if the stems keep breaking and the petals keep falling off.” I sigh again.

“Be more gentle.” He says as if _he_ could do any better.

I roll my eyes and get back to struggling. Something sharp pokes my finger. I gasp, resisting every urge to curse, jolting my hand back away from the pesky plants. I watch a drop of blood form on the tip of my finger, bubbling up before running down in a little stream. 

“Cut yourself?” He says coyly.

“Yes. Not only am I incapable but I am clumsy too.”

“You just don’t know what you’re good at yet.”

I look up. Our eyes lock. I wait to see if he looks away. He doesn’t. This is a game. 

Made brave by the desire to remind him he is wrong, that I _am_ good at some things, I lift the bloody finger to my lips and slowly slide it into my mouth. I wait for him to break as I suck the wound. He watches me, speechless. His lips part ever so slightly. 

Maintaining eye contact, I pull out my finger with a pop. He flinches. I swirl the metallic mixture of blood and saliva in my mouth and swallow it like it were a glob of sweet honey.

He swallows too, lost in what he’s seen. Finally he shakes himself out of it. “Get back to work.” He commands.

I smirk, victorious. “Would you like me to cut another finger?”

He puts his eyes back on his book but struggles to keep them there. “You’re distracting me.”

“Well, go read somewhere else.” I challenge. 

“Go do something else.” He retorts.

“What else can I do?” I say, feigning innocence. “Like you said… I don’t know what I’m good at yet.”

He tenses, unable to shake the image from his mind. I can see the thought of me rushing through him. He struggles to form words, appropriate words, words without implication. “Just… just sit there. And don’t do anything...distracting.”

Satisfied by my successful taunt I look away, back to the scene of our busy morning. An unfamiliar figure wearing a dirty blue gray hoodie and old jeans ripped at the knees fumbles around in the distance. Perhaps it is another homeless person seeking refuge with us. There have been several lately. 

As the figure approaches it becomes clear that it is the physique of an older man. I can tell by the brawn of his hands and the shape of his torso. “Excuse me…” the figure asks everyone he sees. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Hello? Can you please… help me? I’m… my daughter? I’m looking for my daughter. Have you seen her?”

He’s holding some kind of photograph out and tries to get people to look. They back away as if he were shoving a dead fish in their faces and not the portrait of a young girl. 

“Have you seen my daughter?” He asks someone, who ignores him. Poor thing. There is genuine desperation in his voice. 

“H-Her name is Rachel. Green eyes...brown...brown blond hair… hello? Excuse me, have you seen my daughter?”

I was not expecting to hear my name. I don’t recognize the poor man fumbling about. I don’t think I know that sweet voice.

But I remember it from somewhere. From years ago. Passing out Christmas presents from underneath a tree. Reading aloud beside a bed. Wishing happy birthdays.

That can’t be. 

I stand. Joseph does too, crossing in front of me and putting a hand on my shoulder, giving me a look that says “stay back.” I lower to my seat. Joseph approaches the man with caution, his back straight and strong, the complete opposite of the crooked, craning figure of the outsider.

“Can I help you, sir?” Joseph asks. I watch the scene unfold from my distance. 

The man turns around. When I see his eyes there’s no mistaking him.

It’s my dad. 

I am ashamed to recognize him. George Jessop, my father. I feel my heart drop low to my stomach. My throat tightens. His face is greasy and unshaven. His hair is matted and long. His clothes are dirty and his shoes don’t match. But the broken man on the inside is what truly startles me. The man seeking redemption, forgiveness, a second chance. Something I have never known him to ask of anyone.

“Y-Yes. I’m looking for my daughter.” He twitches and tweaks as he speaks, eyes blinking and opening wide, muscles of his face spasming as if there were ants crawling beneath his skin. He’s trying so hard to be normal. “Rachel. Her name is Rachel. Prettiest thing you’d ever seen.” He holds up the picture to Joseph. “Here she is.”

I can’t sit still any longer. I stand up. George’s eyes shift from the stranger in front of him to me, lowering the photograph as he does so.

I can’t believe that’s my father. When he recognizes me his face contorts in pain and joy and guilt and grief, looks I never thought he’d give. He begins stumbling over to me, just a bit off, like a dog missing a leg.

“Rachel, my baby. Rachel, is that you?”

Joseph stops him with a firm grip on the shoulder before my father can approach any further.

“Stay away from her.” Joseph says sternly.

George turns and looks up at Joseph in confusion, sadness, heartbreak. “What? I am her-“

“I know exactly who you are.” Joseph says. “Keep your distance.” He looks at me, seeking my reaction if not my approval.

I take several slow steps toward the absolute horror my dad has become. His face twitches continuously and his eyes, big, green eyes, just like mine, stare at me in wonder. Mine mirror his in shock and dismay. He is beyond dirty, old, and tired. I can see the destruction he’s done to himself with no one to stop him. I can see all the God-knows-what eating away at his brain and his body. It’s a painful sight to see. 

I reach a comfortable distance. I struggle for words. I don’t know what to say. Who would? “Hello, daddy.”

I feel Joseph tense. He lets go of George and takes a step closer to me, standing tall as ever, possessive, protective, powerful. 

George gives me a twitchy grin. “Look at you. All in white. You look like a bride. A beautiful bride.” 

I swallow, throat tightening further. There was a time years ago when I dreamed of the day he’d see me all in white. I never thought it would be like this. I curse fate and our tangled circumstances. Dreams and plans undone by all the unexpected. I wonder how much could have been prevented, if any of it was in either of our control. 

He’s a broken man, but he’s my dad. Maybe he’s still good inside. 

“Thank you, daddy.”

His smile tears my heart to shreds.“And…who are you?” He asks Joseph.

Joseph straightens further. He speaks with unwavering authority, that tender side I know him to have completely out of the picture for the moment. I’m grateful for that, in a way. I can’t be strong right now. I need him to be. 

“Sir, I’ve been looking after your daughter.” 

It isn’t an answer to George’s question. His demeanor shifts unexpectedly. He laughs a snickering, sinister laugh. The way I’d imagine the devil’s laughter. It frightens me to think I was bred by such a monster. “Looking after her, huh?” He says. “What are they calling that these days? Giving coke and pot to kids? Fucking ‘em too if you see fit? That what you call ‘taking care’ of her?”

It’s like my body has been covered in sewage and I stand here as a piss-soaked rag on the side of a road. Dirt. I feel like absolute dirt. He must think that I ran off with my supplier. Little does he know it was Tracey who started it all. My friend, a girl who used to sleep over at our house, a girl who sat at our kitchen table as he helped us both with our chemistry homework and made us corn dogs and coffee. Tracey. She was like a second daughter to him. 

Joseph isn’t stirred, or at least he doesn’t show it. He stays patient and uncannily calm. “No, sir. Not me. I’ve actually helped her. She’s sober now. I’ve kept her fed and clothed and… happy.”

Sweaty, less-than-competent-in-his-current-state  George unzips his hoodie, fanning himself with his hand. His poorly aged brown skin is loose and crepey around his neck. “Happy? Rachel, that true, sweetie?”

I can’t speak.

“She’s _very_ happy.” Joseph says.

There is injury in George’s eyes. “I would like you to come home.”

Come home? To which house? The one with loving parents and happy days? Or the personal hell of endless abuse and suffering? Which does this George belong to? Which Rachel is he looking for?

“I think you’ve lost your right to call her that.” Joseph says, overstepping the line as his rage rises. 

George cackles again. “I am her father.”

Joseph breathes heavily, like he loathes hearing him say those words. “I’ve heard some awful stories about you, Mr. Jessop. You’re no father.”

“You know my name?” George asks, more surprised than necessary, his demented state becoming more and more apparent as the conversation continues.

The Project has started to gather to watch the scene unfold. They whisper and point, keeping distance as if trying not to seem involved.

There is intangible weight in Joseph’s words when he says. “I know your daughter.” 

A wicked giggle from crazy George. “I don’t believe I know _you_ , Mr… Mr…” 

“Seed.” Joseph states. “Joseph Seed. Head of the Church of Eden’s Gate.”

George the gremlin laughs some more. “If that’s who you are… then what does that make you, Rachie?”

Somehow seeing his madness makes me not know anymore. I can hardly find the words. “You...you don’t know what we’ve got going on here.” No one does. No one understands us. No one understands our love. No one understands anything.

“ _We_ are going home.” George says, reaching for me. “Come on, Rach.”

Joseph won’t have it. He stops the reach with his own hand, pushing George’s arm down. “She’s not going anywhere.”

George gets cocky, puffing his chest as he drifts into another persona. One of more prestige than he is entitled to. “Back in my day, Mr. Seed, men had the decency of asking for a father’s permission before whisking off his daughter.”

Joseph raises his voice. “She came of her own accord. I did not take her.”

George’s eyes change again, growing bitter. “Her friend told me she ran off with a man twice her age. I see she told the truth.”

She’s a traitor. She’s a lying bitch. 

Joseph clings to his composure despite being provoked to do otherwise. “It isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t it?” George challenges.

“Please!” I interrupt. “I’m not coming home. That’s that.”

George gives me childlike eyes, the manipulative kind, the I-didn’t-mean-for-it-to-happen-this-way kind. “Just think of what your poor late mother would say.”

Mom would take my side. I know she would. She would have left him too if he lost his mind before she passed.

“If mom was around I would have no reason to leave home.” I spit venom.

As if that wasn’t enough of a “no” George presses on, suddenly trying to be a cool dad. He changes every line. “But school is starting up soon! Senior year. You don’t wanna miss out on that!”

“She doesn’t want to finish school.” Joseph answers for me. “And she doesn’t want to be obligated to live with you anymore.”

I can see George’s anger growing. “So?” He deflects. “You can’t do that! You can’t take her from me!”

“She doesn’t want anything to do with you, do you understand? Why should she after the way you treated her?”

George scoffs. “What would _you_ know? Huh?! She ain’t your kid!”

It feels like a fight is going to break out. It scares me seeing them both get angrier and angrier.

“She doesn’t have to be. I’m protecting her _from you_.” Joseph says.

“You. Don’t. Have. That. Right.” George argues. 

“Stop!” I cry out, but it goes unheard.

Joseph is angry. “You think I don’t know you?” He leans close to him, a low and deadly whisper so the others around us don’t hear. “I wake her up from the nightmares she has about you.”

George swallows. “Fuckin’ teenagers. Can’t trust what they say.”

That draws the line. Joseph’s voice booms thunderously. “She isn’t lying! I know she’s not. I know, because I had a father who was just like you. My brothers and I weren’t his children. We were his punching bags. He took his drunken anger out on us and made us believe we _deserved_ it. I had to watch my oldest brother fight that monster when he was only thirteen. Two broken noses. I cleaned the blood off the _carpet_ .” Joseph seethes. It’s a personal fury. He harnesses it, reigns it in like an animal trained to kill. He speaks the rest of his mind with severest sincerity. “To think… that her _perfect_ hands picked up bits of glass from your self indulgent fits of rage… Let me make myself clear. I care about _her_ . I don’t care what the state or the sheriff or her school have to say about it. And I especially don’t care about what _you_ have to say about it. I would be going against everything I believed in if I did not provide shelter to a girl trying to escape the wrathful whims of her addict father. That’s that, Mr. Jessop. Goodbye.”

He turns me around to escort me back inside. George calls after us when we’re a few steps away. 

“The cops came by and took your brother from me, Rachel.” He says sorrowfully. 

I can’t bear the thought. David, my little brother, kicking and screaming as he’s torn from that house despite it being for his own good. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He deserves so much better. But he’s delicate. His mind is sensitive. The world is a scary place for him. 

“You’re all I have left now… Rachel. Please. Don’t walk away from me.”

“Don’t say anything.” Joseph whispers to me as he leads me up the porch steps.

The three steps feel like scaling cliffs. Why do I feel like the guilty one? Why do I feel like I’m doing something wrong? I can’t save my dad. I need to protect myself from him, but I want to save him. 

“I _know_ you can hear me, Rachel!” He calls one last time. 

I wish I never saw his face again. I can’t stop clinging to the hope that perhaps it’s not his fault. That he is still my good dad on the inside. Why couldn’t I have just lived in eternal hatred toward him? Why did he have to show up? Couldn’t he just _die_ already? 

I shouldn’t make that wish. I shouldn’t wish that on anyone. But on him I do. 


	12. The Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a month late and I'm so sorry. I'm a stressed out high school senior (surprise). College applications. Homework. Rehearsals. Auditions. All that wonderful stuff called life. But writing this is helping me get through everything and I don't know where I'd be without it. Good news is that you guys now have a nice long installment to make up for it... by that I mean 8,000 words long. ^^" Hopefully it's been worth the wait and all the lead up.
> 
> Huge huge huge thank you to @your_taxidermy for beta-ing this and sitting through all my rewrites, complaints, and self deprecation (I think I started over like four times on this one? Yeah. I've been dreading this chapter.)
> 
> And thank you to everybody who has made it this far. Thank you for reading. Thank you for kudoing. Thank you for subscribing. Thank you for commenting. I never expect feedback from readers but I always, ALWAYS appreciate it. Love y'all. And I hope you love this chapter. Without any further ado... here's Rachel.

I wonder if George made it home alright. I shouldn’t have ever thought that I wanted him to die. Now it is all I can think about. It’s like my mind won’t move from the subject, and my heart has been cemented in guilt for ever having thought it at all. I want to turn off my brain. 

Tonight is the night that John’s plan is set in motion. Putting on a show for some gullible judge in hopes that he will find a way to make an exception to the law. It’s not the right thing to do. I regret it even though it hasn’t happened yet. I’m starting to believe that I am a bad person. For leaving my dad, for refusing my friend, for deciding to stay with a man I barely knew all because it just felt like the right thing to do at the time. Why? And now I have to go to this dinner and pretend to be someone I’m not. To pretend that everything’s just fine here. I have to pretend that I am safe and sound 

I see a rabbit outside my window, standing on its hind legs with its ears perked up, revealing the soft fuzz on its belly. If it weren’t a wild creature I would love to pick it up and set it on my lap. I’d happily stroke his soft ears and round back. The companionship of an animal is a beautiful thing. There are no strings attached. No complicated conversations. No misunderstandings. A friendship that defies the traps of verbal communication. The rabbit’s little nose moves up and down rapidly as his head darts from side to side, searching for danger. Suddenly he sees something approaching and springs away, white cotton tail bouncing off into the trees. 

That same moment there is a knock on my door. I welcome the sound that signifies an end to my loneliness.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“It’s me.” I recognize Joseph’s voice immediately. “Are you ready?”

“No.” I reply. “I’m not even dressed.”

“They’re expecting us at seven.” He reminds. “You’d better hurry.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.” I hate the sound of my own complaint.

A pause. I’m sure he’s sighing. “I heard your trip with John was not successful.” He says.

I don’t want to talk about it. Not successful. That’s one way to put it. It’s another thing to say that things went wrong and John hit me for it.

I don’t want to talk to him through the door. “Would you come in?”

He does. And he looks just like he did when I first saw him. Dressed neatly in a suit. Hair pulled back with more care than usual. Signature yellow glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He holds a medium sized white box in his hands. We look at each other. And for the first time, I feel so far away. Like I’m standing on the other side of a wide, cavernous abyss that I will never really cross.

“Why do you look so sad?” He asks.

I long for him in a way I’ve never longed for anyone. I miss him even though he’s right in front of me. I can’t help but love him. I just can’t. But I don’t have the courage to say it. Not again. Not unless sleep or some other drug makes them leak from me. “You’re so handsome.” I say. It’s not the answer to his question. It’s just my tired mind and nervous heart spewing their first coherent thought through my lips.

A laugh. “Is that something to be sad about?” he asks, almost a tease.

I shake myself back to reality. “No. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

It’s been a while since he’s said that. 

He takes a seat beside me on the bed, but the distance between us doesn’t feel any smaller.

He rests a hand on my leg. The cool touch of his fingertips through the thin silk of my nightgown makes me shiver. “Tell me.” He states. “What’s wrong?”

How could I tell him? I don’t know where or how to start. Maybe it could be as simple as ‘your brother hit me across the face and I’d really rather not see him tonight (or ever again)’. But I can’t find the guts to say it. 

A breeze drifts through the open window. The leaves on the trees rustle, whispering to each other like they did when I followed him into the river. I drift off into the memory of that blue night. It wasn’t long ago. But life has gotten so much more complicated since then. I remember the way my eyes burned beneath the cold water, how he carried me to bed, the way my thoughts swirled and my breathing slowed as I inhaled the scent of those mystifying white flowers that seemed to transport us to another world…  I’d give anything to go back to that night. Back to when there was no end in sight. Back when the bliss of our bodies was all that existed, like dawn of morning would never shine.

Sometime in our moment of silence he makes up his mind to speak. “I’ve always hated parties.” He tells me. “I think they’re so… so superfluous. And I don’t like that it has to be this way” The slow interlocking of our hands feels like home. “It goes against everything I believe in. But I also don’t…” he searches for the right way to put it, trying not to say too much yet afraid of saying too little, “I don’t want to lose you.”

My heart warms. I lean against his shoulder. I’m afraid of everything ending. “I don’t want to lose you either.” I admit.

He sighs. “It’ll be alright. We’re doing this so you can stay here.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here.” I say finally, honestly. 

His hand twitches. “Now now.” He says. “What’s got you talking like that?”

I shut my eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just go home and bear it until my birthday.” 

I feel him tense further. “No.” He affirms. “I’m not going to let you expose yourself to that much pain.”

“It’s only for two months, Joseph.”

“It’s not about the time.” He sighs again, then, adding a word of comfort, “Although I’d miss your company, I could wait for you if I knew you’d be safe. But seeing  _ him _ yesterday… no. You’re not going. I promise you that.”

“I lived with him my whole life until I found you,” I say. Suddenly two months doesn’t seem long at all.

“Yes. Before it was too late.”

“Joseph-“

“Let me put it this way, dove. One dinner party with one stuffy old judge or two months locked up in your room at the mercy of that wretch of a man. You choose.”

He speaks of my story as if it were his own. Wretch of a man. It hurts to hear him talk about my dad this way. But it hurts more to imagine life with George again. I block myself from reliving it. That’s the last thing I need tonight. “Party.” I sigh.

He kisses my head for the first time in a long time. I love the way his lips linger there. How could I leave him? How could I ever leave him when every gesture keeps pulling me back? 

“Now, if I may,” he begins, gentle and easy, “what happened…between you and John the other day?”

There it is again, that subject I dread. I guess I never really told him anything. That must’ve been a dream too. That leaves the question: What does he know? What doesn’t he know? I don’t know. I feel like he knows everything. 

“Nothing happened.” I lie in vain. 

“You came home empty-handed.” He says, too smart to believe me. “Something happened.”

There’d be no point in telling him if he couldn’t see right through me. I must tell the truth though I do not like it. I recall John’s eyes, flickering darkly as he captured his evidence, as he infringed on my modesty and discovered our secret. 

I’m afraid. I feel just as naked now as I did that day. I can barely get the words out of myself. “While we were out… He saw all the marks.” I say, avoiding Joseph’s eyes.

“What marks?” he asks. 

It’s hard to say. I’m scared to say it.“The ones you… left on me.”

He straightens up, distancing himself from me. I feel the need to explain. My words are choppy. “H-he opened the curtain. He didn’t know I was already starting to change… and he saw. He saw everything.”

Silence. The clock ticks endlessly, dreadfully. My heartbeat gets louder. As if blaming myself would buffer any blame from him I mumble, “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I start to panic, hiding my face in my hands. “It’s my fault. All my fault!”

I feel a kind hand stroking my back with unexpected tenderness.

“No it isn’t.”

I look up at him. There’s no anger in his eyes. “You aren’t mad at me?”

“Perhaps a little disappointed. But no. Not mad.”

In a way that hurts more than his rage ever will. Still I thought he would hate me for it and I am glad that he doesn’t. 

“You’re not… not mad?” I say again in disbelief.

He smiles at me like I couldn’t be more naive. “It’s only John.”

Only John? Wasn’t John one of the worst people on this earth who could ever find out? I try to understand. “But I thought you said that no one could know...?”

“I know more of John’s secrets than I can count. More than I should and certainly more than I would like to. Now he knows one of mine.” He says nonchalantly.

It’s unsettling how well he is taking this. Maybe I should tell him that the cuts on my face were no accident. Maybe I should tell him that John hit me, repeatedly, after all, if having my privacy infringed upon and our secret revealed wasn’t enough to get him to take a side. I wonder how well he’d take that. I wonder if he’d brush that off just as easily.

My heart cracks at the thought. Before I can say a word he changes the subject, tapping the white box resting on his lap. 

“I brought you this.”

“What is it?”

A memory floods him. Those ocean eyes deepen. “It’s from a long time ago. Something I’ve been keeping for sentiments sake. But it just sits in this box untouched and I’d get much more joy if… well, just open it.” He places it in my hands.

I slowly and carefully lift the white lid. A dress is inside. It’s old and delicate. Lacey, of course. White with a hint of gold. Short ringe on the three-quarter sleeves. The bottom is damaged. Shredded in places. It’s short. Cuts off above the knee. And here are flowers, real flowers that have been preserved and sewn into the belt and part of the hem. Someone was putting hours of work into it. There are many remaining in the bottom of the box, yet to be stitched.

“It belonged to my wife.” He says.

Of course it did. My heart sinks. I shouldn’t be disappointed. What was I expecting? All roads lead back to her.

Joseph goes on, “From what she told me, it’s been around for  generations. Gone through many changes. Used to be long like the things you wear. My wife spent ages fixing it by hand, tucking it and hemming it. Still tattered in places, as you can see. And she really loved flowers. Once we were married she began the careful work of preserving them and stitching them on. It was a nice pass time while she waited…waited for… you know.” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

I nod, only halfway listening. As sentimental as the story is, I can’t help but feel like an intruder on this beautiful past. I don’t belong in this. I don’t deserve this. I am not worthy by any means.

“It’s yours.” He finally says. 

It’s hers. It will always be hers. My eyes find his.“Joseph, I can’t accept this.”

He’s more concerned than surprised. “Why not?”

“You’ve given me so much already.” That’s the truth, but it isn’t why I don’t want to keep this or even put it on.

“And?”

He just has to know, doesn’t he? “It was  _ hers. _ ”

“She’d want you to have it.”

No she wouldn’t.

“Maybe if she were here I could borrow it for a very special occasion.” I sigh. “But if she was here…then there would be no reason for me to be.”

The truth hurts both of us. I know if he had a choice he’d always choose her. He misses her beyond belief. How could I blame him for that? How could I hate him for that? How could I hate  _ myself _ for that?

“Rachel,  _ I  _ want you to have it. Just… try it on. Let me see you in it, even if just for a moment. Let me remember.”

My name. My real name. When he uses it I know he is talking to me. Truly talking to me. I pity him for his loss. I can’t blame him for being nostalgic, for wanting to relive a moment of joy. I know I would. And I’d like to give him a piece of happiness back even if it means sacrificing my own.

“Are you going to watch me?” I ask.

He wasn’t expecting that. “What do you mean? Haven’t you had enough of being snooped on for the week?”

I roll my eyes. “You aren’t John.”

“So… you’re offering?”

I suppose I am. “Sure.”

He gleams. “I’d like that.”

I bet he would.

I stand, taking two steps away from the bed. I face him and begin to strip. His eyes flick back and forth from my face to my hands, at work removing my nightgown. I feel clumsy and ineloquent, and quite a bit shy. It’s funny. He’s seen everything there is to see and yet im consumed by nerves every time. He doesn’t seem to mind. I pull down another sleeve. The garment drops to the floor by my feet. 

“I should be more careful about leaving those on you.” He admits as he takes in the specks and spots I’ve been trying to forget. “I’m sorry they’re so excessive.”

I hope that doesn’t mean he will stop. “It’s fine! They don’t bother me at all!” I lie.

“No.” He shakes his head.. “I must resist.”

I look away. I want the opposite. I want him to be unable to resist me. But I’m not that kind of girl.

“I’m not saying it will be easy.” He says sweetly.

I look back at him. “Joseph…”

“What? Tell me.” He takes my hand again.

I must have said it a hundred times by now. “I wish we didn’t have to keep it a secret.”

He pauses. “But you understand why, don’t you?”

Knowing I should be honest with him, even if he belittles me for it, I shake my head. 

He’s not as open as I thought he’d be. “I’ve told you time and time again Faith. It’s about who I am and how my followers see me. It would be hard for them. They’re asked to be chaste unless they are married. Wouldn’t it be unfair if their leader didn’t do the same?”

“Isn’t it worse to keep a secret mistress than to have a public wife?”

“It’s best to have neither.”

“So then what am I?” 

_ Mistress _ , I hear John and Megan hiss in my head. __

Joseph can’t answer the question.

“You…” he sighs. “To them, you are my sister. Like you are to them all.”

“And to you?”

He reaches up and takes my face in his hands. I drown in his eyes. It’s not a choice.

“You’re everything I want but the one thing I shouldn’t have. You’re my sin. My vice. My candy. My crime. I don’t think you understand. I’m kept awake at night by thoughts of you.”

I never knew that. I never thought I’d linger in someone’s mind that way. I didn’t think I’d haunt the halls of his mind like a phantom when we aren’t together. In anyone’s mind. I never thought of myself as that kind of special.

The truth weighs heavily on him as he continues. “The thoughts grow and multiply throughout the day and when dusk finally settles I come in here to ravage you. You’re an addiction. You’re an irresistible urge.”

That’s not what I want to be. To think that I am to him what my drugs were to me… it’s not a pretty thought. But in a way, it suits us. The way he talks about it. The way he makes it sound. We are broken people trying to put each other back together using pieces of one another. It’s tragic in its own right. And beautiful too. 

“Keep talking to me like that.” I say. 

I’ve started something. Lit another fuse. His hands reach for my waist. They roam and wander across the bare skin they know so well. He looks up at me like I’m something divine. 

“I pray all day so I can buy another night with you.” He admits, fingers trailing, helpless guilt dripping from his soul.

His presses his lips to the skin below my breast, moving down my ribs and stomach in gentle pecks. Goosebumps rise over me and I gasp compulsively. 

“Please… tell me more.” I request.

He pauses to obey my wish. Beard brushing against my sensitive skin as he whispers, “I try to quit you but I can’t. There is no one like you. I won’t let them take you from me. I need you. I need your presence.”

“I thought I was the only one.” I tell him, biting my lip.

He showers me with more beautiful words, his voice low, promising, his fingers still lingering on my waist. “Didn’t you know that from the moment I first saw you?” Our eyes lock. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t feel it too. Fate. Tying us together. Inescapably.” 

I get chills. We’ve never openly spoken about it. “It’s just…I  was starting to think it was all in my head…”

He gives in just a little and lets his lips meet my bare skin once again. “How could you think that? You’re so young and so…so perfect…Have I really been so bad at letting you know? I’m just a lonely man…a lonely  _ old _ man…”

My heart pounds. “You’re not.” I giggle, trying to forget the years between us. “It’s not about that. We understand each other.”

“I’m glad we do.”

More kisses. Each one weakens me. I speak straight from lust. “Touch me.”

He denies me, trying to stop the heat from rising.“Let’s not get carried away.”

But I keep fanning the flame. “Touch me.” I say again.

“As lovely as you are, we really must get going.”

“Please.” I whine.

He struggles to take his hands off my skin. I know he wants to keep them there. At this point his self restraint is depriving us both. “No.”

His refusal is maddening and thrilling all at once. I want him to touch me. I want him to bridge the gap that I felt between us, to make me forget the empty space between where I end and he begins.

“Get dressed.” He commands, pulling himself away.

I pick up the new dress gently and pull it over my head, intentionally leaving my body completely naked underneath. It’s a perfect fit. Almost like it was made for me. 

“Perfect.” He sighs in awe. “I knew it would be.”

“Happy now?” 

He assesses me. “Turn around.”

I obey my orders. 

His hands are on my hips and I’m pulled into his lap. He gives me no hope of escaping his grasp. He slides a hand along my goosebump covered thigh. I ache.

“Take me. I want you.” I beg.

“I saw you that day and I knew I had to have you. And no matter how tonight goes...I won’t let them take you from me.”

He’s gotten me hot. “I want you to t-take m-me..”

He’s not used to hearing me speak so desperately.

“Lust is a sin, you know.” He says as his hand continues the tease. The torture. 

He’s killing me. “If you won’t have me, let me go.”

“Of course I’ll have you. You know I’ll have you. But we are going to be late. John doesn’t like guests who don’t show up on time.”

He says that yet he shows no signs of stopping. I swallow hard. “Then let me go and  _ let’s go _ .”

“You don’t want me to let go. You want to stay right here. I know what you want. I know exactly what you want. You’ll spend all day praying after I’m done with you.”

“Praying…” I moan. “Praying… you should… pray too… or maybe just-”

My breath escapes in a gasp when I feel his hand between my legs. Finally a taste of what I want.

“I’m already forgiven, Faith. God and I have a special understanding. He brought you to me. He placed you in my lap. I see you now-- just a taste of all the rewards he has in store for me.” His fingers play me like an instrument. “Oh, what a sweet taste. You’re a good girl. You just have to be patient. I won’t forget. I could never forget you. Just wait.”

Tangled in the ecstasy of his fingers and his voice I whimper

He removes his hand and releases me. “Now, now, little dove.” You’ve gotten yourself all worked up. But I’m afraid we really must go. We’re already going to be late. Shall I leave you a moment to regain your composure?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. 

He stands and goes to the small sink on the other side of the room and rinses his hand

“You’d better behave while we’re at this thing.” He reminds me, as if I wouldn’t. 

“I know.” I manage to say. I feel so stupid. “I’ll… I’ll be good.”

“You’ll sit right next to me. No one else will lay a hand on you, do you hear? You look too pretty tonight.”

“Okay.”

He turns the water off and dries his hand. “You’re mine. You know that, don’t you?” 

That’s the only thing I’m certain of. 

* * *

John outdid himself. But who knows how much of the work  _ he _ did. The ranch is spotless. The tiny flames of candles dance ambiently with the air in the room. A grand yet intimate table is set for six, a beautiful bottle of wine stands elegantly as the centerpiece, fine crystal glasses encircling it. The napkins are folded into fanciful arrangements, the silverware is either brand-new or freshly polished, and the plates are impeccably clean. John simply can not fail when it comes to class and charm. I am afraid he may even overwhelm our guest with the display. We are a small county. We have always been a small county with small-town people at heart. John is, without a doubt, the richest man who has ever come to live here. The richest and the most arrogant.

I wonder where his money  _ really _ comes from. He said he was a lawyer, but this kind of wealth is a lot to acquire for a man barely entering his thirties. He’s like some sort of Jay Gatsby. We don’t know who he is but we know he’s rich and that makes him interesting. Foul and unfair as that logic may be it’s the truth. I am sure that is why Joseph is so opposed to material wealth and blind consumption.

“Ah, you’re here.” John says as he emerges from a hallway like a modern day prince, dressed sharply as ever in pressed slacks and a black button down shirt. He flashes a smile of sinister charm. We may never learn to get along, but I will never deny that he truly is very handsome. And suddenly, as if sense memory, my cheek is on fire from where he slapped me. I feel the sting as his rings broke my skin. And I am afraid. The tension between us is so strong it’s practically tangible. He carries himself like he was bred by and will breed nothing but royalty, a man cut from the finest cloth, untouchable. But he isn’t pretty on the inside. Not the inside that I’ve come to know.

But God, if he isn’t the handsomest man to strut into this damn nowhere land called Hope County. He should be in Hollywood. He should be in movies. Lord knows they prefer his type around those parts.

I’m proud of myself for standing tall in front of him, for being able to face him after what he did to me. In a way it feels like I’ve come back from defeat.

“Black suits you.” I compliment him. It’s the politest thing I can say without hating myself.

He grins smugly. He has the audacity to look at my bare legs, summing them up like he were appraising a piece of furniture. “White is your color, Faith.” It’s an insult disguised as flattery. White. The plainest color. As if I could wear nothing else. As if I could  _ be _ nothing else. He turns to Joseph who stands on my right. “And you, brother…” I wait anxiously for him to finish his remark. “...make her glow even brighter.”

The three of us are silent. He should know better than to say something so implicit. If the room wasn’t tense enough before it was about to snap now. The men share a glare. Joseph doesn’t let things get too heated. He excuses himself and steps into the hallway to find the restroom.

He’s left me alone with John. Our eye contact is a little too strong. I look at the table. 

“Nice display.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then it hits me.  _ We are alone _ . If he touches me, I will be ruined. Just like the last girl. Dead. Gone. Who knows where or how. 

He’s coiled. I can’t tell if he is about to strike or not. 

I turn my back for a split second, to look around the room, out the window, away from his cold eyes… I don’t remember exactly why. It was a stupid decision. A stupid and weak decision.  Suddenly there is a hand on my ass. I knew it. I fucking knew it. _His_ hand. His unwelcome, unkind, unclean hand. I should spin around and slap him but I’m frozen. I’m afraid. How to react? What to do? _Be still_ _Rachel_. I tell myself.

He’s gripping it. It hurts. I breathe. I try to contain myself. I don’t want the viper to strike.

“Aren’t you going to slap me?” He asks, almost like he wanted me to go for him.

I swallow. “No.”

“Why?”

I step away but he pulls me back against him and takes a meatier handful of my ass. 

“You aren’t mad?” He challenges, knowing that I must be.

I shut my eyes and wince. “Of course I’m mad. Please let go.”

He pulls me closer. I can smell his pomade and cologne. It’s nauseating. I don’t like feeling his body behind mine. His hard, shapely, masculine body.

“Shouldn’t you try to escape?” He whispers in my ear dangerously. “My  _ brother _ will be back any moment.” An unwarranted hand fingers my side and finds my breast. My jaw drops at the violating touch. “Don’t you remember what happened to the last girl? He catches us and you’re done for. He so much as  _ thinks _ he sees you in my arms you’re dead and gone.”

I’m terrified. It’s just like what happened to Selena. Has he been doing it all on purpose?

“Do you do this to every girl who passes through?” I ask through shaking breaths.

 “If I didn’t, there wouldn’t have been as many girls. One disappointment after another. The minute their loyalty to Joseph wavers...that’s it for them. He doesn’t have time for weak, lustful, impious little rats...like you.”

The thought is sickening. The fact that John would touch them, take them and twist the blame all on them. Why would he  sabotage those girls like that? “Why?”

“Because none of them are  _ worthy. _ You aren’t  _ worthy _ of my brother.”

He’s almost too protective of Joseph. It’s out of place. It feels  _ wrong _ . 

John grips me harder. His voice is full of sappy sweet sympathy. “You know how it is. Joseph is just trying to fill a void, you see? He just wants his wife back, Rachel. Can you imagine how… it…it… pains him, to discover that another woman  _ chose _ his younger brother after he put his  _ faith _ in her? I mean all he really wants is to know that happiness again.”

Now I’m not scared. I’m angry. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair. John is an exploiter. He exploits the girls and Joseph’s emptiness, costing those girls their lives, all while he gets a free fuck in the process. 

“It isn’t even their fault!” I try to wring myself free. “You’re a manipulator! You grab  _ them _ ! You seduce  _ them _ ! All so you can get rid of them in the end?! Is  _ that _ it?”

“You’re smart. For a child.” He says through grit teeth. 

That’s it.

“And you’re dumb. For a lawyer.”

I’ve tipped his glass just enough. He releases me in his growing rage. “I wouldn’t say that if I were you, Rachel.” 

I’m up for a fight now. “Should I tell Joseph you grabbed my ass?”

“Tell him that and it’s  _ you _ who will be punished.”

It’s just like my dream. How could it be? That I  _ let _ John touch me? That I  _ allowed  _ it to happen and therefore I wanted it? No.  _ No. _ It’s not right. That isn’t what happened. I had no say. I doubt any of those girls did.

“Should I tell the Judge then? Tell him you touched a  _ child _ -”

“Why bother?” John sneers. “What’s that compared to all the things that you do with my  _ brother _ ?”

It’s the way he says it.  _ My brother _ . I think he’s jealous. In a crooked sort of way. Controlling, obsessive, commanding. He wants attention. I’ve always known that. He’s possessive. It’s like he wants his brother all to himself… to the point where he feels threatened by the thought of there being other significant people in Joseph’s life. He doesn’t understand sharing. He doesn’t understand that there are different ways to care about a person. In John’s head, everything is blurred together into some sick twisted fog of borderless feelings.

There’s got to be a reason for that. A reason beyond himself. I doubt that he was always this way. And for that I feel sorry for him.

“John…” I change my tactic, removing the aggression from my voice. “I’m not…I’m not trying to take him from you. I could never take him from you. You’re his brother.”

“And you’re his whore, Rachel.”

He makes me angry every damn time he calls me Rachel. And his insults hurt; but I stay calm. “That’s not my name anymore.”

“Well your name isn’t Faith, either,” he meanders around the room, his walk smooth like a slither. “That was  _ her _ name.”

“Whose?”

He gives me a look like I am completely stupid. “His wife’s.”

It’s like I’ve fallen from some high and heavenly place. For the first time I’m aware of the ground beneath my feet. Gravity feels too strong. It makes too much sense. How could I have been so stupid? This whole time… he’s been calling me her name. 

“So what if it was?” I try to brush off his cruelty, try to ignore the disillusionment, to forget the facts of what he is telling me, but it stings badly. I know it’s true. 

John sighs. “You just don’t get it. You’re a replacement. When he saw you that day, he didn’t see  _ you _ . He saw  _ her _ .”

How can that be? The first time in my life when I actually felt like someone saw me for who I was? How could that moment be a lie? How can feelings lie? 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I raise my voice.

“I don’t?” He chuckles at me like I’m an idiot child. “Tell me then.”

I try my hardest to remember that first day when Joseph saw me in the chapel. I think of the sunset, of the crowd. I remember how he read my mind that day. I remember the sound of his voice when he convinced me to stay. And then today. Just an hour ago. All of those words. All those lovely words. They can’t all be false. It can’t be just to fill a void. 

Can it?

“You think he loves you?” John laughs. “He doesn’t. The only woman he ever loved was his wife. You might look like her. You might have the same laugh and the same sad eyes. But you’re just filling the shoes she left behind. You’ll only ever be a ghost of that woman.”

A ghost. 

The crystal life I’ve constructed here cracks. The roses wilt. All because of that one word. John poisons my mind; quick and lethal like a snakebite, like a heroin injection. But this doesn’t get me high. It makes me sober. Lucid. Too lucid for my sanity. I thought my life here was making me more alive. I thought I was my own person. I thought I was special. 

I want to scream at John. With one single word, he’s taken my happiness. I want to challenge him. I want to fight for my happiness even if my joy comes from a delusion.

Before I can talk back to him there is a knock at the door.

John gives me a nod too courteous for our current state of affairs. “I’d be happy to explain things to you further the next time we have a moment alone.”

I hope that there will never be a next time. The part of my ass that he groped is tingly and warm, almost like his hand is still there and will never really leave. Just like the sting from the cuts on my cheek. He’s marked me. 

The large doors open. “Sorry I’m late,” Jacob says as he enters from outside. He did put on his uniform after all. It’s so strange seeing him dressed neatly. The black jacket decked with honor and the red beret on his head make him look like a different person.

John checks his watch. “Not to worry. There’s still time until our guest arrives.”

Joseph returns. He smiles at me. He smiles at  _ her _ . He doesn’t know I know. 

“Here we are.” John takes in the three of us; Jacob, Joseph and I. “The Soldier, the Savior, and… the Siren.”

“And what does that make you?” I ask. “The Solicitor?” More like the snake, I think to myself.

“For tonight, I believe you’re right, Faith.”

It’s like he knows just how to make me miserable. 

I look at the table and notice for the first time that there seems to be an extra seat. “Are we six this evening?” I ponder aloud, trying to create normal conversation.. “I thought we were five.”

The door opens a second time, but it is far too early for it to be the Judge.

I turn to see a sight I could not have prepared for. Megan stands in the doorway, a floor length slinky spaghetti strap dress clinging to her svelte frame. Her black hair is pulled up and back into a ballerina bun, revealing her long slender neck, jutting collarbones, and slim toned arms. She walks in the room like a secret agent, stealing the scene. I hate her. This was supposed to be my night.

“I’m so sorry I am late.” She apologizes. “I had to make sure the girls had someone to watch them while I was away.”

I roll my eyes. She has no reason to be away. And certainly not to be here. 

She heads straight to Joseph, completely ignoring the fact that I am standing right beside him. Her arms slide up and around his shoulders, giving him one of those light hugs that only awful people give. Up close I notice she’s wearing makeup. 

“It’s good to see you, Father.” She says. I don’t like what I hear in her voice.

She pulls away, allowing him to take her in. 

“You look lovely.” Joseph says curtly.

I want to slap him for it. 

“Who would like a drink?” John offers, ever the attentive host.

“Me.” I say immediately. “And make it a strong one.”

Jacob gives a grunting laugh. “Atta girl.”

“No.” Joseph steps in. “She’s not old enough.”

“What?” I raise an eyebrow at him challengingly. Then, mocking innocence, “Let’s not pretend I’ve never had one before.” Tracey and I would sneak drinks at our waitressing job. We got more tips when we were tipsy.

“What would you like?” John asks. 

“Hmmm…” I think. “Vodka martini?”

The look of disgust on Megan and Joseph’s faces makes my scandalous smile grow wider. 

John is surprised.“I thought you’d opt for something sweet.”

I’m certain that everyone in this room did as well. 

“She’s not drinking. She’s seventeen.” Joseph interferes.

“I put my life on the line for this country at eighteen.” Jacob says. “She can have a drink.”

“But she’s  _ not _ eighteen. Besides, the legal age is twenty-one.” Megan says as if none of us knew that already. Stupid bitch. 

John pours me my drink. “Tonight is not about the law. It’s about keeping Rachel here.”

He purrs my name but in my head I hear rattlesnakes.

“Do you honestly think a county judge is going to let her stay here when she’s being served alcohol?” Joseph asks. “What happened to being modern, respectable people?”

John ignores him and looks at me. “Do you want olives?” 

“Two please.” I say.

“John. Do not give her that drink.”

“Why not?” I whine.

“Because it is  _ illegal _ and because I  _ say _ so.”

“Gee, I wonder what  _ else _ is illegal.” John throws in, placing the v-shaped glass in my hands. He brushes his fingertips over my skin. I hate him. 

Before Joseph can say or do anything about it I down half of the drink in one swig. 

Megan is repulsed. “You vile, wicked girl. How dare you disobey the Father this way!”

Her old timey ways don’t match her slinky get up at all. I stir my olive stick in my glass. “How _ dare _ you dress like that, Megan. What was the rule, Joseph? Two fingers  _ minimum _ on the sleeve?” I say spitefully. 

Shocked and offended she turns to Joseph. “ _ This _ is the girl you’re going through all this trouble for?”

“I’m not sure.” Joseph says. “I am having second thoughts.”

I gulp. The rebellious energy that flowed through me slows. My heart sinks. Haven’t I had enough bad news for the night? I cower at the sound of his words. He can’t mean that. He wouldn’t do that to me. 

“I’m sorry.” I say.

Joseph towers over to me, speaking low like an absolute menace. “Put the drink down.”

Frozen, I stand still, unable to react. I may be a replacement. I may just be a reminder of the girl he once loved. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got no where else to go, no one else to turn to. He’s all I have. 

“Now!” He shouts.

I jump at the sudden boom of his voice. My hands shake, releasing the drink, shattering it on the floor and sending shards of glass flying in all directions. A substantial amount of liquid soaks the bottom of Megan’s dress. Perfect. 

“Oh, now look what you’ve done!” John groans.

I stare at the mess I’ve made. “I’m sorry.” I say again, albeit very glad that I am wearing something that doesn’t brush the floor. 

“Well you know what they say!” Jacob laughs hardily. “Party hasn’t started until someone’s glass breaks. Brother, I’ll take a whiskey neat.”

“Of course.” John replies, returning to the bar. “Step back, everyone. I’ll have someone clear this right away.”

“We are not having this party so we can all get drunk and make fools of ourselves.” Joseph says.

John snickers. “Well we aren’t  _ all _ getting drunk.” He retorts at his brother. “You and Sister Margaret over there can supervise.”

“My name is Megan.”

“It was a joke, sweetheart.”

Before all hell can break loose there is a knock at the door.

“That can’t be the judge.” John says, checking his watch. “Fifteen minutes early.”

He goes to get the door. Meanwhile, a girl, about my age, comes out to sweep away the broken glass. My head is spinning. A tall, portly man with hair missing entirely from the top of his head enters. He has a large nose and a distinguished chin. His shirt is too tight on him and his belt is on the loosest hole. I notice right away that he struggles with keeping eye contact with me. He’s stiff and strange, like he’s spent a few too many years of his life cooped up in college and courtrooms and bad Christmas parties. 

Time blurs after that. The introductions are brief and uninteresting. I gather that his name is Mr. Gallagher. He comments that his wife teaches at the elementary school which my mother worked at. I don’t think about it. I nod and say “Oh, small world.” And he chuckles awkwardly, eyes flicking down to my chest again. He’s offered wine and only accepts after John’s charming and chummy attitude convinces him to. He is seated first. Everyone else finds their place. I wind up seated between Joseph and John. The food is served. Conversation is made. Drinks are poured for those who want them. I’m quiet and in a daze. Too much has happened. I can’t focus. I can’t think. 

And John’s hand on my leg. Fingers roaming my bare skin. He has no right. I can’t stand him. He’s too close. I can smell his pomade and his cologne and the wine mixed with his minty teeth. I feel like I’m gonna fucking choke.

He moves his hand further under the table cloth, down my leg, almost at the knee. I look around the table trying to find eyes that will help me. Joseph cuts his food. Megan gives him eyes. The fat judge stuffs bread into his face. 

And I just can’t take it.

I run to the bathroom. The second the toilet lid is up, my face curls over it and I throw up what little food I ate. My head bangs.

Just when I find a moment’s peace there is a light rapping on the door.

“You alright in there?” I hear Megan’s voice behind the door.

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute.” I want her to leave. 

She doesn’t. She opens the door and shuts herself inside the room with me. She leans against the wall, her perfect figure like a dancer off duty. 

“I told you this would happen eventually.” She says.

I flush the toilet and lean back against the bathroom wall. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

I send darts into her with my eyes. “Fuck off, Megan.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” She says too sweetly. Her words are like soda that’s gone flat. “I can tell.”

“You can’t tell anything!” I bite back. “I’m not pregnant!”

“You’re throwing up.”

“The food doesn’t agree with me.” I say. But it’s not true. It’s a cumulation of the night’s disappointments and discomforts and diatribes. I can’t take it. 

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying!”

“How do you know you  _ aren’t _ pregnant?”

“Because I’m…” I shake my head. She already knows why. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Infertile? Broken?” She pushes my buttons. 

“Shut  _ up _ !”

She just smiles at me. “You’re feisty tonight.”

I look away from her. “John got on my nerves.” I offer a diluted explanation. 

“How so?”

“Megan I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Poor thing.” She has the nerve to squat down and touch my shoulder. “Are you feeling okay? A little emotional, maybe?”

God I want to  _ strangle _ her. “Megan, I’m not pregnant.”

“You sure?” She glances at my midsection. “You look a little heavy.” She smirks.

“I’m. Not. Pregnant.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I roll my eyes. “I just know.”

“Then what really happened?”

“John Seed happened.” I say, expecting her to understand.

She sighs. “Don’t let John lay a finger on you.”

“And what am I supposed to do if he already has?”

“Did Joseph catch you?”

“No.”

She gives me the same appraising look that John did earlier. Like I’m furniture. Like I’m an object.“Just make sure he never does again.”

What bad advice. 

She opens the door with a creak. “Do come back out once you’ve finished in here. The men miss your company. Not that I see why they would.”


	13. A Little Water Clears Us Of This Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith begins to doubt her moral character after her fate with the Project is sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! Yeah, you reading this! You are wonderful. I hope you have an amazing day and enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> A quick cordial reminder that I took the artistic liberty of giving Rachel a middle name because... it has been some time. *ahem* Eileen. 
> 
> Heads up: his is the second to last chapter in this "act" of the story. After Chapter 14, there will be a two year time-jump.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around and for making it this far guys! Much love.

Morning carries with it a certain foreboding. I’m nervous. I’m restless. Alone in my bed. He never came in last night. The bed’s too big. The room is too cold. The covers don’t do much. I think I’m getting sick. Sick. Is he sick of me? 

It’s like I don’t want the day to go on. But I know that it has to. That’s the only way to get through it. I dress quickly and step outside.

The compound is a ghost town. It’s like the world disappeared for a day. The season is starting to change. But it feels too early. Is it August? I think so. I don’t remember. I haven’t kept track. The air is getting crisp and the leaves are starting to turn. I think it might rain.  Summer is slipping away. So am I. 

Not a soul can be seen until I look to my left and see him as he leans against the wall by my door, dark jacket against the chipping paint. It’s quiet. It’s dead. It’s like we haunt the place. Waiting. His head turns. I see him. Eyes blue as ever. Sky gray like the few and far between strands flecked in his beard. The wind. It blows. Wind chimes on the porch jingle like a bell tolling death. I’m cold. The hair on my arms and legs rises. He looks at me. He says nothing. The silence. The wind. The chimes. The trees. They’re moving. Is anything real? 

“Where is everybody?” I ask.

“Away.” He says.

Why? I wonder.

“You could have come in, you know.” I say, nerves fluttering. It’s worse that he didn’t. It’s not like him. 

“I wanted to let you sleep in peace…  because I’m afraid there’s bad news.”

My heart and stomach both drop. Of course there is. I could feel it. Am I going to have to go home? Is everything over? The wind blows. My dress flutters about my legs. “What is it?” I ask, certainly not ready for his answer.

He takes my hand in that special way. Slowly intertwining fingers, rubbing his thumb against the softer part of the back of my hand. His eyes trail up my goose bump covered arm and meet mine.

“The Sheriff came by this morning.” He says, calm but full of dismay.

“Am I going to have to go home? Are they taking me away?” My nerves jump inside me and the words escape shakily. The wind flips and flaps. Strands of hair get in my eyes. 

He sighs and pulls my hand up to his lips to kiss it. 

He speaks the words dreaded words, “You’re going to have to go home.”

God no. Please God, no. No. Don’t do this to me. Don’t rip me away from the only one I’ve ever loved.

I shake my head, resisting fate. “I won’t go.”

“Listen-”

“Joseph, you said you wouldn’t let them take me!”

He isn’t heartbroken. He doesn’t look ashamed or disappointed in himself at all.

The wind blows. It howls. Violently whipping in different directions now. The chimes are freaking out. I’m freaking out. 

“I can’t go back there!” I persist loudly over the noise, trying to get him to where I expect him to be, to where he ought to be, to a place of sympathy and urgency and  _ understanding _ . But no. No. It’s like he’s made of ice. 

“You may want to.” He says, face completely still unlike the air around us.

I free my hand. I don’t know what to say. I feel like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap trying to wring myself free, tearing at my own flesh and bone in the process. 

“How could you  _ say  _ that?! How could you think for a minute that I’d ever want to go back there? Have you forgotten everything you said to my father? Everything you said to _ me _ ?”

John. I think of what he said.  _ He doesn’t love you. And he never will _ . His words finally click in my head. The repeat again and again and again, telling me a truth I hoped against.  _ He doesn’t love you. And he never will. He doesn’t love you. And he never will. He doesn’t love you. And he never will. _

“It’s for the best.” Joseph says.

Everything is against me. Everything and every one. No one cares. I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at John. I am angry at the Sheriff and I am angry at the law. 

“You’re the one…” I swallow hard. “You’re the one who tells us that the world suffers and burns because of  _ their _ immorality!” I cry out. “Because of all their corruption! You’re the one who believes we should disobey them and resist them and follow our own hearts because that’s what we are  _ made _ to do.” There are tears now. I am angry at them too. The wind displaces their tracks on my face.

“I know.” Is all he says, completely indifferent.

“And?! What does that mean now? You’re just going to let them  _ take _ me? You’re going to break your promise without a fight?”

“No one is taking you, sweetheart. You’re going because you have to.”

“But  _ why _ ?” I yell. “Why? What’s the worst they can do, shoot me?”

I almost wish they would. 

He smirks. 

“Why are you smiling?!” My whole life is getting torn apart again and he is standing there  _ smiling _ . It’s not fair!

“Because the Sheriff came by this morning and told us that your father died last night.”

What? “I- what? What?”

“The Sheriff came by this morning and told us that your father died last night.” He takes both my hands, holding me tight to keep me still and stare into my eyes, trying to calm the storm behind them. “Your father left you everything. The house. All your family property. His money. His life’s work. It's all yours now.”

I don’t believe it. I’m shocked and confused and cold and-

“You’re free, Faith.” He says.

I gape. The chimes begin to settle. The wind calms. It’s like God letting us know he’s here. Or maybe he’s disappeared.

“John worked it all out. You’re free.”

_ John _ ?

“I prayed for this.” Joseph says, clasping my face in his hands. He is more happy than I am. “I asked God to keep you here, to keep you with me. I asked him to show us a way. And he… he came through. Everything is working out according to his plan… Faith? Why that look on your face?”

It hasn’t sunken in yet. My dad. I saw him just the other day and now I will never see him again. He wasn’t the man he was supposed to be by the end. He was lost. Why couldn’t I have seen that? I should have pitied him. I should have  _ known _ that he was grieving and that the man who hurt me wasn’t really him. God I was so ignorant. So selfish. Such a child.

“I… I’m an orphan.” I say as I drift into my new identity, like a candle melted down to wax.

His lips touch my forehead. Cold. Why are his kisses always so heavy? Why does each feel heavier than the last?

“You have me.” He says tenderly.

It’s not the same. It could never be the same. “You… we… I don’t know what we are. I don’t know who I am.”

“You are  _ everything _ , my child.”

Child? Sister? Lover? Which am I?

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever we’d like it to.”

_ You mean whatever you’d like it to. _ Father? Brother? Lover? Which is he?

I try to pull away but his hands hold me still. 

He sighs. “I understand that this news is… difficult. Even though it is freeing.”

Freedom. Why don’t I feel that? It’s like I try to swim to the water’s surface, but his anchor is attached to my feet. I can swim but only so far. At some point my lungs will fill up and I’ll sink. 

“I’m overwhelmed.” I say, shaking my head.“I… I never... got to tell him... I love him.”

He doesn’t understand. “Did you?”

“He was my  _ dad _ , Joseph.”

“He hurt you.” He struggles to smile as he lowers his hands from my face. “I hope you understand that it is very hard for me to hear you say that you loved someone who  _ hurt _ you.”

“Did you love your dad?”

“No.”

“But you loved your wife.”

Something reaches him inside. I’m glad it does. “Yes. But she didn’t  _ hurt _ me.”

“Still. You never got to tell her before she went.”

“I…” He shakes his head as if he is trying to forget. “It didn’t matter. She  _ knew _ .”

“I don’t feel like George knew.”

“He didn’t deserve to know. He deserved to die uncertain.”

If I died today I would die uncertain of Joseph’s love. But I would still die for him. I knew that long ago. I drop the argument. He doesn’t understand. 

“I suppose you’d like to take a look at his will.” Joseph says. “John has it. Come with me.”

John has it? Why would John have it? Why would they hand it to anyone but me?

I follow him to John’s cabin. We get inside just as the rain starts. The air. It’s oppressive. The room is dark, filled with shadows from the lack of light outside. There’s a figure in the darkest corner, made almost invisible by the dismal light entering the window. Jacob. I know by the way he leans against the wall with his arms crossed and the weight he carries with him wherever he goes. John sits in the large high back chair by the desk. His cordial grin is unsettlingly cool. Half his face is in the dark. One blue eye peers at me. He sits in that high back leather chair and clicks a pen. 

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, but his voice lacks all sympathy.

“Thank you.” I reply in short. 

He rises from his desk with a stapled document in his hands and presents it to me. 

So there it is. Seeing the will right in front of me is surreal. A confirmation. The shock hits all over again. “He’s…  dead?”

“Yes. Died just last night. They’re saying he took his own life.” John says. 

That’s not like him. I look up at John. “ _ Who _ is saying that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “The town.”

“Who did you hear it from?”

“Does it really matter?”

Something is off. 

John continues. “Long story short, you’re not under his care anymore.” He says, a sarcastic smile forming on his face. “Hooray.” He produces another document. “He left you everything, of course. The house. What’s left of his bank account. Rights to his life’s work, his quote en quote ‘research’, should you find any use for it.”

I start to read the page.

_ ‘I appoint Rachel Eileen Jessop as my Personal Representative to administer this Will, and ask that she be permitted to serve without Court supervision and without posting bond. If Rachel Eileen Jessop is unwilling or unable to serve, then I appoint John Duncan to serve as my Personal Representative, and ask that he be permitted to serve without Court supervision and without posting bond.’ _

I don’t know of any John Duncan. But I suppose there were a lot of things that I didn’t know about my dad. Especially in the last few months. He went from father to stranger. Seventeen years as a parent unraveled over the course of a few. Short. Months.

“What does it mean, unwilling or unable to serve?” I ask.

“Well, you are a minor. So you’re technically unable.” John answers. "Not for long, but for now."

Of course. How convenient. “And what does that mean in regards to his property?”

“As it says, John Duncan will act in your stead.”

“But I don’t even know who that is!”

“It doesn’t matter. Your father did.”

I guess he must’ve. I skim over the rest of the page and flip through the will, looking for a signature

_ All of which is attested to this 13th day of August 2011.  _

_ George Jessop, Testator _

_ John Duncan, Witness  _

_ Joseph Seed, Witness  _

 

If I smelled a rat before,  I now see it in plain sight.

“What day is today?” I ask the room. I really don’t know. I stopped keeping track. I wish I didn’t. The rain. It must be August. Or was it September already? Why can’t I think? 

“August 14th.” John says.  

I turn to Joseph.“Why is  _ your _ name on here? When was this drafted?”

“I guess you could say George had a change of heart.” Joseph says.

“After he came here looking for me? After you stood in his way?” I have so many questions. None of this makes any sense.

“Precisely.”

What? “Who is John Duncan?" I demand "He was in the room when you signed it! You had to have met him!”

John whistles from his side of the room, waving his fingers at me smugly.

“ _ You _ ?!” I exclaim.

He grins devilishly. He sinks back into his chair like Lucifer after a long day’s work. The rain is picking up. 

“That is my legal name.”

Weren’t they all brothers? “B-but I thought-”

“I was adopted when I was eight by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan. Ever since then I have been John Duncan. But I’m a Seed by blood.”

I shake my head. I think of George. “He would  _ never _ include you in this.” I resist the truth that’s in front of me.

“He signed it. It is a legally binding document. And who is to say he  _ didn’t _ want us as witnesses? He was a recluse. No one in town had seen him in ages. He had no friends left to speak of.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have my ways of gathering information. It’s simple, really. You walk into a bar and you hear things. Actually it was quite sad. No one had seen him but no one checked on him either. Not even on his kids. No one knew where you’d disappeared to. They assumed you were a recluse just like he was. And your brother? No one knew about him either. 

I don't believe this. There has to be a caveat somewhere. I turn the page and read another section aloud. “ _ In the event that my death preceeds the eighteenth birthday of my daughter, I fully entrust her care to… _ to…” No. 

No.

I can't believe what I am reading. I have to stop.

John laughs. 

_ Joseph Seed _ . 

No.

This isn’t real. 

_ Joseph Seed _

It can’t be right. 

_ Joseph Seed. _

It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real

“ _ J-Joseph Seed _ .” I finally, finally say. 

I sink into the chair as the words sink into me. I flip through the pages in disbelief. The signatures look like scars.  “So… that means…”

“You’re free.” John replies. 

“Aren’t you happy?” Joseph asks.

I don’t know how I feel. 

Confused. 

A bit frightened.

How the hell did this happen? 

I ought to be grateful.  But I don’t understand it. I’m scared. I look up. The wind is loud, loud, loud outside. Jacob. He bites his lip, blue eyes black in the shadows. Strapped around his thigh is a knife in its holster. I don’t like his silence. It’s unnerving. I picture a young, snappy Jacob smashing in his father’s nose in one perfect punch. I imagine the sound of the bone crunching in. Blood spewing on the carpet and the walls. I see him as a man, sniper rifle in hand, waiting for the precise moment to fire the bullet that burst the skull. I see him slaughtering an animal to survive. Not a soldier. Not a man. A killer. A trained killer. Jacob. Someone I trusted… Jacob. My friend.

I know what happened. I know without any of them saying anything. I feel it. In my bones. My guts churn. 

“How… did you get him to sign this?” I ask the men. The strange men who I shouldn’t be with. The men I never should have trusted. The men who are, now, legally, literally, family to me. 

They don’t respond. None of them do. Six blue eyes look at each other in the shadowy room, speaking without saying a word. ‘You tell her.’ ‘No, you tell her!’ ‘I’m not telling her.’

“Just  _ tell _ me!” I beg for the truth. I know it won’t be pretty. There is  _ no way _ it’s pretty. It’s like I can already see it’s silhouette and its monstrous and grotesque.

Jacob clenches his hand into a fist. He swallows the words, unable to speak of what he’s done.

Of course, it’s Joseph who breaks the silence. “You have to understand. It was for the best.”

I stare into those eyes. All this time I thought I knew him. That he was a kind person. That he was a good person.

I flick my vision across the room at John. He stares at a spot on the floor, pleased with himself, pleased with what he’s done.

Jacob’s eyes have hardened completely. He stands stiff and soldier straight, like he’s awaiting orders for the next one. 

I thought I knew them. I thought I knew _all_ _three_ of them. But that’s not the case at all. 

“He didn’t take his own life… did he?” I ask, not quite one of them, not quite all three. I know the answer. I don’t need them to say it. But I want them to confess. 

“He died willingly.” John says.

I stand. “ _ Willingly _ ?!” I exclaim. “You  _ killed my father  _ and you say he died  _ willingly _ ?”

John just laughs. “What else was left for him? Face child abuse charges and spend the rest of his days in a jail cell? Death was better for him. All I had to do was tell him that you’d be safe with us and he accepted the opportunity to escape his suffering. He practically consented to his own murder. It was pitiful.”

I stare at silent Jacob. I visualize it. His hard and heavy hand around the blade. The skin breaking. The blood dripping out. The life leaving George’s eyes. 

Joseph lets out a long sigh and steps towards me. I feel his cool hand on my shoulder. The hand that’s touched me  _ everywhere _ .

“We did what needed to be done.” He says.

“You wanted out.” John chimes in. “You wanted to stay here. You chose this life. You chose us.”

Finally Jacob manages a few words but doesn’t look my way. “It was all for you, kid. He… he will never hurt you anymore.”

John made the plan. Joseph  _ made the choice _ . Jacob just follows orders. 

But I blame Joseph most of all. He’s in charge. They both answer to him. He’s the one who ran into conflict with George. He is the one who wants me here. He is the one who  _ decided _ . Selfishly. As if there was no other way. Was there?

And I

We

I 

The same bed

_ With him.  _ Who had my father killed. My father. My  _ dad _ . My  _ family _ .

I’m

_ He’s touching me _

Slut

_ Traitor _

Orphan

_ Whore _

I burst into tears. 

Joseph tries to comfort me but his touch makes me writhe. 

“Do  _ not _ touch me!” I sob. “Don’t you _ dare _ touch me!”

He pulls his hand away and tries to use his words as comfort. “He would have continued to hurt you, Faith.”

“He was my dad! He was my dad!”

“He  _ hurt _ you. It doesn’t matter who he was. He  _ abused _ you. He  _ tortured  _ you. He  _ used _ you.”

It’s all my fault. I wished for him to die. Even if I never said the words I felt it in my heart.

John groans at me. “Can’t you just be grateful? This wasn’t exactly easy.”

“John!” Joseph warns.

“What? She  _ asked _ for it. She wanted to stay here.”

“I wanted it too!” Joseph argues. “It’s… it’s not just about her. Don’t blame her. She’s suffered enough.”

“She couldn’t go back and live with him for a few months. She had to have it the hard way. It is  _ her _ own fault that we had to do this.”

Joseph stands. “She has no control over her age.”

“And you have no control over your feelings!” John bites back. “You had to have  _ her _ , didn’t you? Couldn’t have waited for her to grow up? Couldn’t have waited for someone  _ legal _ to come along?”

“She was in agony!” Joseph yells. “You saw the bruises on her body the night that she found us! You saw the same broken girl that I saw! Who knows what would have happened to her if she spent another  _ day _ living that life?! I wasn’t going to wait and see. Do you remember when the police showed up at  _ our _ house John? Do you remember the  _ relief _ we felt? She needed the same relief. Do you remember what it was like to be able to  _ breathe _ for the first time as we watched that house disappear from the backseat of the police car? Or did you forget what that felt like during all those years you spent living as a  _ prince _ in Atlanta?”

I’ve had enough. It’s too much to hear them yelling on top of the life shattering news I’ve received. I get up and run out, brushing against Jacob as I do. I don’t look at him. I  _ can’t _ look at him. Joseph calls after me but I ignore it completely. I need to get out. I need to be alone. I need to grieve and think and find out how I feel.

The rain has declined to a drizzle. The outside air is crisp and cool, the kind that is almost difficult to breathe. Everything is gray. An overcast sky turns the river to the color of slate. My lungs heave as I chase the current, not knowing where I am going but knowing that I need to get away. 

This dress was not built for running. My foot catches the hem and I hear the awful noise of fabric tearing as my body tumbles to the ground. I stand on shaking legs. I gather the ripped fabric into my arms in front of me and continue to run, run though I have nowhere else to go.

Tracey was right. There is something wrong with these people. 

I must have ran for fifteen minutes straight. I was running away from that thought. But there was no use trying to escape my own head. I collapse beside a large tree near the river’s fork. I ran so fast my tears dried. I sit and let my lungs relax, my heart return to its resting beat. Every inch of me aches.

My knees are bleeding from the fall. I’ve never felt so angry. Watching the blood collect in the scrape makes me feel better somehow. Like a grounding release. But why… why am I upset? Why was any of this cause for grief? It’s not the end. Going home would be the end. But now… now I am going to stay here forever.

This is what I wanted. I wanted a life here. I made up my mind about that early on. I wanted a life without the outside world, with nothing me pulling me back. Joseph is a part of that world. His brothers are too.  _They_  are life I have chosen to live. And yet they killed him. My father. Why does that hurt me so? Isn’t that all I wanted? 

Jacob. The soldier. He became a weapon. Joseph may have had the inspiration but Jacob held the knife. Jacob made the cut. Jacob was just as good as the weapon itself. Without him the murder would never have ever been committed. John couldn’t do it. Joseph  _ wouldn’t _ do it. It had to be Jacob. There was no other way. 

Joseph, the mastermind. Jacob, the weapon. And John, the alibi. 

I start to chuckle. To cackle. Something wicked trickles into me. The leftover mania finds its way into my brain. I laugh the way that George laughed. I am his daughter after all. Perhaps I was destined to share in his madness at some point. I am happy. Pleased, in fact. I get up. I look over the water’s edge and see a new girl looking back at me. 

She’s a wicked creature. A wild thing. Hell-bent on mischief. And yet her face is so innocent, so serene. The wind picks up again. It blows hair across her face.

You would think I feel like Helen of Troy, the way that these strange men risked it all for me. They put blood on their hands for me. I wonder what else they’d do. I wonder  _ who _ else would be driven to such an act. All I know is that I have never once felt more beautiful in my whole entire life. I forget who they murdered, why they murdered him, who I was...

Joseph would kill for me and I’d die for him. The language of violence and the language of love sound almost the same.

I’m starting to believe that I am a bad person.

I head back. The walk is long. I don’t care. It’s cold. I’m cold. I don’t care. Trees catch and snag my clothes, my hair. I don’t care. It goes on forever. Then finally I’m there. Walking through the empty, silent compound, ripped and muddied dress flapping around me. Howling. Howling. The wind. It’s picked up. A wolf, maybe? I don’t know. Whistling. The chimes are ringing again. I head toward them. To my cabin. I’m freezing. My teeth chatter. But there’s a fire inside marked by madness. Too sad to think. Too broken to feel. Twisted. Snapped like the breaking twigs below my dirty bare feet.

I’m starting to believe that I am a bad person. 

I open my door. The room is heated. I thought it would be empty. But Joseph is there. Waiting. Waiting like I said that I would be right back when I never did. 

He didn’t come after me. 

“You came back.” He says, not surprised at all.

“I have nowhere else to go.” I say, grinning despite admitting that this place is it for me, forever. I'm stuck. A caged bird. 

He stands and approaches. I can’t predict whether I will be scolded or embraced. 

A slap across my face. My smile falls.

“You had me worried.” He says. 

I feel betrayed. “But you didn’t come after me.”

“I knew you’d come back. You’d be a fool if you didn’t.”

I’m hurt. Why am I hurt? I feel my throat tighten. I can’t speak.

He puts his hands on my shoulders. I look away. 

“Look at me.” He says.

I don’t want to. 

“Look at me.”

I keep my eyes away.

He tries to move my chin but I push his hand down. He tries again. I push him away again. It becomes a struggle. I don’t know when or how. Suddenly I’m just hitting him. Weakly. Like a girl. He’s strong. I’m not. He stands there and fights to keep me still. He’s winning. I feel stuck. Stuck. Stuck here. With him. He’s all I have. Now he really is all I have. There’s no backup plan. No escape. Tears swim into my eyes. I get weaker and weaker. I see my father. I see my dad. I see the dad I used to know and all the memories with him. The best hugs. The genuine laugh. 

The lump in my throat tightens. 

“Leave me alone.” I choke.

“You’re cold.” Joseph says. 

He can’t replace him. His hands. His arms. Are they forceful? Are they kind? I can’t tell. I keep resisting but it’s futile.

“L-leave me alone.”

“You’re ice cold.”

“Y-you k-killed m-m-my dad.”

“It was for the best.”

“You killed him! You killed him!”

“Shhhhh.”

He wraps me up. He’s warm. I smell his skin and I love him and I want to die because I do.

“...my dad is d-dead…”

He’s picking the flecks of nature out of my hair. I’m shaking.

“Don’t worry. I will take care of you.”

He comforts me from the chaos he created. He’s all I have. He’s all I have.

“Look at you, you’re all dirty. You look like you’ve been playing in the mud, There, there. I’ll run you a bath. I’ll wash your hair. Then you can get some sleep. You need sleep.”

Sleep. Sleep. My dad. Asleep. Asleep forever. 

I cry. “...my dad… my dad…”

He tries to sit me down on the bed but I squeeze him tighter. 

“Hush now. It’s over. What’s done is done.”

I manage to let him go.

He goes to the tub and turns the faucet. “Let’s wash you up. Get you to bed.”

My vision is blurry. “What have I done?”

“Nothing.” He says. “Nothing at all. You are innocent.”

“No. No. No I’m not. I wished him dead. That’s as good as...as doing it… oh God!”

He’s back in front of me, trying to hold me steady. “Listen. Listen. Listen to me. It needed to be done.”

“There’s blood on my hands.” I cry.  

He speaks low, full of certainty.“No. You are innocent. You are clean.”

The tub whistles as it’s filled with hot water. Steam rises from it like a cauldron. I don’t feel innocent. I don’t feel righteous. Evil. Evil. Evil. I’m starting to believe that I am a bad person. The sound. The noise. The pounding in my head. It’s loud. It’s horrid. The knife. The will. The shadows. John. Jacob. Joseph. Me. 

“There’s blood on all of us!” I shriek.

He tries to quiet me. “It was the only way. The only way.”

I won’t be soothed. The noise. The  _ noise _ .  “Breaking the law is one thing but killing a man is another! My dad! My dad!”

“God is the only judge of our crimes.” He tries to make it better. Like putting a band aid on a bullet wound. 

But it doesn’t work. “Murder can’t be justified.” I say.

“But it is, every day.”

He’s right. He’s always right. 

I look him in the eye. “I do not... I do not want to be here if this is how it’s going to be… if this is what we’re going to do…”

He takes my head in his hands. “It won’t be.” He assures.  

“No more killing?”

“No more killing.”

I swallow. “Give me your word.”

“I give you my word.”

Our lips meet. I kiss him.  _ He killed him _ . Oh God.

The water gushes. The wind, how it roars. But no water will wash this deed away. No wind no matter how strong will be loud enough to mask the throbbing pulse of the evil released today.

I am starting to believe that I am a bad person. 

I believe that I am a bad person.

I am a bad person.

A bad person.

Bad person. 


	14. Mother, Mother (End of Act 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months after the Project claims Rachel's old home, Bliss production begins. Megan has been keeping a shocking secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: long mushy author note ahead
> 
> Everybody... we've finally made it to the end of Act 1. That means that next chapter, we're gonna be 2-3 years into the future. It's been a long, long road so far. There's still plenty of lore that I hope to cover by the time I actually finish this thing. That said, this is a big milestone for this story.
> 
> I honestly can't thank all of you enough for sticking with this story. Whether you've been following it since the beginning or you've just now caught up to this point, your comments, kudos, subs and bookmarks make my day. Even if you don't leave any of that stuff, just the fact that you've read all this is a blessing and an honor. You guys inspire and motivate me every day, especially when you leave your thoughts and theories about what's going on with the characters! So thank you <3 Of course, I always need to give a special thank you to @your_taxidermy, my sounding block and beta reader. Thanks for all the aggressive validation, for being honest with me when I need it, and for being a sweet friend.
> 
> Also thanks to my dad for reading every chapter and putting up with all my nonsense ((I'm sorry if I've completely destroyed this game for you by now)) I love you <3
> 
> So... about this chapter:  
> \- If you played New Dawn, you probably know what's coming :,)   
> \- Heavy inspiration from the telephone that can be found in The Last Best Resting Place in FC5  
> \- I researched datura (the genus that bliss is apparently derived from) and jimsonweed clearly has the closest resemblance to the bliss plants in FC5. However, for whatever reason the developers decided to make "jimsonweed" in the game a purple flower that looks just like nightshade... so for our purposes jimsonweed is A WHITE BELL SHAPED FLOWER (as it is IRL). 
> 
> Please enjoy the end of Act 1. I can not WAIT to show you what's in store for Act 2! 
> 
> Love, Stina

“Here, Sister Faith?”

“No.” I say. “Plant them underneath the atriums.”

“But, your mother’s peace lilies--”

“Burn them. I don’t care. And don’t mention her again.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“And in the greenhouse too.” 

“Yes, Sister.”

I step toward the old brick house with white windows. It was once my home. I grew up there. It was meant to be  _ mine _ . It was left in my name. But John acted quick. It belongs to the Project entirely now. The house. The gardens. The land. Everything. I have no rights to it.

My eighteenth birthday came and went like the winter. Eventless. Lonesome. Without celebration or acknowledgement or self discovery. I don’t know how long it’s been since. I do know that the leaves have fallen and snow season has passed and judging by the heat we are approaching summer. I stop and turn back to the scene behind me. Project members hard at work planting the white flowers according to my orders, the sun beating down on their backs. I shield my eyes with my hand. They’re tearing up what’s left of my mother’s garden. Few of the plants survived the cold, harsh winter. Everything is getting chopped and uprooted regardless. I look at the three species of white flowers, so similar, like siblings, now being planted in the places of the plants she knew and loved. I know them by their proper names. Jimsonweed, angel’s trumpet, and thornapple. Joseph and I collectively call them Bliss. Named after the effect that they have on people. 

After my father .passed away we came back to look at the property. John’s first thought was how we could tear the place apart and make it a sort of hostel for our followers. He paid no regard to the fact that this was where I grew up. Even though these walls saw more bad than good, it was my home. He let me keep two rooms to myself. My father’s study and my old bedroom, the later which I have kept locked and refuse to enter. It sits there like a time capsule, the same mess of clothes and sheets and empty ziplock bags. 

Joseph asked to see it. I wouldn’t let him. But I showed him the study. Low and behold, there, on my late father’s desk were dried and withering white trumpet flowers. And on the random pieces of paper, notes on his experiments. I spent many days and nights decoding and organizing his work, until finally, I concluded that one particular combination was most useful.

I remember the morning of my success. I was eager to share my results with Joseph. 

_ “Remember… what you said… about there being no time to wait on free will?”  _ I asked.

_ “Of course.” _

_ “I think I have a solution.” _

_ “Oh?”  _ He chuckled at me, as if my work was child’s play.  _ “Have your little experiments been going well?” _

_ “Would you like to see for yourself?” _ I challenged.

He seemed interested enough. I opened a small vial and dripped a drop of the oil on the back of my hand. It stung a bit, but I’d stopped caring.

He was uncertain at first. Cautious, even. He watched the drop on my hand intently, not getting close to it.

_ “Smell it.” _ I said

He hesitated. 

_ “Do you trust me?” _ I asked. 

He did. He took a light sniff.  _ “Oh that’s… I recognize it. What-” _

_ “The flowers. The ones. The bells. Datura. I’m not sure exactly which breed, But I have a feeling-” _

_ “Angel’s trumpet.” _

_ “Exactly. But there’s other possibilities. I’ve identified three. Angel’s trumpet, Jimson weed, thorn apple.” _

_ “Yes. But...what does it do?” _

_ “Sniff again.” _

He did. And pulled back from the strength. I laughed at the face he made. He blinked many times.

_ “So strong?” _

_ “I mixed the extracts of all three.” _

_ “What does it do?” _

He couldn’t see  his own pupils expand.

_ “The same thing the flowers do. _ ” I said, watching the drug kick in.  _ “But stronger. Hits faster. Much more concentrated.” _

He looked at me skeptically, his speech slower than usual.  _ “How’d you figure this out?” _

_ “Coincidence. They were some of the plants that George happened to be studying. His handwriting was a disaster but… his thoughts were still coherent. This was his most successful attempt…he was trying to…you know.” _

I watched a smile emerge on his face, his limbs relaxing, his thoughts moving like honey through his brain. 

_ “You’re feeling it now.” _ I said.

 He was.  _ “It’s like…” _

_ “Oh, I know.” _

_ “...bliss.” _

And it clicked.  _ “That’s it!” _

_ “What?” _ He said, confused.

_ “That’s what we’ll call it!” _

It was funnier to him than it should have been.  _ “You can’t be serious.” _

_ “Think of it!” _

All I’d figured out was how to get the right concentration of oils. I learned that they could be mixed in different ways to create different effects. It was a perfect equal balance of all three, diluted by thirty percent, that put people into a dreamlike haze. A beautiful, sensual, heavenly haze. Then there was the kind that would send my father and brother into their fits. Three parts thornapple to one part jimsonweed and two parts angel’s trumpet at ten percent dilution. From my father’s notes, anything under ten percent could be fatal.

I come out from the memory. I look at the three flowers, so similar, like siblings, now being planted in my mother’s gardens. They’re white, like angels usurping her red roses, her lilies, her sunflowers. All the color is leaving. Everything is white. 

“What day is it today?” I ask one of the planters.

He looks up at me, forehead moist with beads of sweat trickling into an unkempt beard.

“It’s the first of May, Sister. And it’s a Tuesday.”

Have nine months gone by already? August feels like yesterday. 

“Thank you.” I say, heading inside to try and escape the heat. 

I look around at what used to be the living room, which is now just another place where we house the growing number of converts. Bunk beds for the lucky. Simple mattresses to accommodate the rest. There’s a woman sitting on one such mattress, trying to nurse her crying baby. Her eyes apologize for the noise. Beneath her dark circles and ghastly white skin I see that she couldn’t be much older than me. Another teen mother escaping conservative parents, coming to us for food and shelter when three months have gone by and not a single child support check has appeared in the mailbox. They all have the same sad story. And they’re all completely useless.

The child screams and the mother’s eyes grow increasingly weary. She sighs, exposing her breast to feed her child. It suckles. She winces. If only babies knew the pain that mothers go through. But they don’t know anything. That’s what makes them babies.

I catch myself staring at her. I shake it off. I ought to give her a word of comfort. That’s the natural response. But what do I know about children? Nothing. And I will never know. And what right does she have, coming here, unable to contribute in any way, shape, or form to our cause; living off the labor of the rest of us—

Joseph pities them. I don’t see why they’re worth it. I don’t understand why their irresponsibility demands our sympathy. They’re useless. They just make more mouths to feed. And they will continue to do so. I overheard John saying last week that our crops aren’t doing well enough to support our rate of growth. The last thing we need are children running around. Incompetent, annoying, crying, shitting, children.

I head up the creaky old stairs quickly, locking myself in my father’s study. I sit down at the old wooden desk where I had made some progress organizing the rest of his notes. It’s quiet a moment. Then the baby cries again. I hear the mother hushing it. This house is old. You can hear everything. I press my hands over my ears and look out the window, watching the progress being made in the gardens from the cooling comfort of a ceiling fan. 

One woman with dark hair braided down her back is bent over with her hand on her waist. She stands straight and rolls her shoulders, clearly in pain. Her body shifts slightly and I notice the bulge of her belly. Another one. Another useless child on its way. At least the mother is earning her keep. Lord knows her child won’t.

Even from this distance I see that her hands are red and beginning to blister. She shouldn’t be handling the plants without gloves. None of them should be.

I look down at my own hands. The redness has started to fade but the dry patches are still there. 

I didn’t notice them until Joseph did. Even though they were sore and sensitive and stung like a bitch under soap and water, I didn’t care until he cared. I remember the night clearly. It was… late. Past midnight. Closer to morning. There was a thick layer of snow on the hills and trees. Frost stuck to the window like a rash. I sat at George’s old desk, squinting at a notebook full of chicken scratch, transcribing the notes unto a fresh pad with more legible writing, when cold hands rested on my shoulders. The hair on my neck raised. I closed my eyes. 

_ “You’re working too hard.”  _ He said.

I shook my head, my voice a mumble.  _ “It’s important.” _

_ “You need sleep. It’s written all over your face. Come to bed.” _

I put my hands on top of his. 

_“Your skin’s all dry.”_ He commented _._ It wasn’t insulting. It wasn’t meant to be bad. If anything it was said out of pity. But since then I’ve been self conscious. I felt his eyes taking in the red patches and hard cracks that started to form on them. They were once as smooth as a silk dress that had just been steamed. Now it’s like someone left several hot irons on them and couldn’t remove the stain. 

I looked at the leaves and the white flowers on the desk in front of me. The oils. The mixtures. All the notes. None of the proper tools. Scraps of research. Little caution on my end.  “ _ I should wear gloves.” _

His lips met the roughened knuckles on my right hand and I cringed.  _ “I never thought chemists had such struggles.”  _ He said. 

_ “Chemists wear gloves. And goggles. I’m… improvising.”  _ I sighed.  _ “The only science I have is what George left behind… Lord knows it’s no true science.” _

_ “You’re doing splendidly. I’m very proud of you.” _

I let out a weak breath _. “I’m only doing this for you.” _

_ “Did I set a deadline? Is the science fair tomorrow? Late work half the credit?” _ He teased.

That made me laugh.  _ “You say that like I’m a schoolgirl. I just turned eighteen, don’t forget.” _

_ “Most girls your age are in school, aren’t they?” _

I rolled my eyes. _ “You know what I mean.” _

_ “And yet... here you are… with me.”  _

I didn’t think that this was how my life would be.

_ “Come to bed.”  _ He said again. __

_ “Just an hour longer. I think I’m on to something.” _

_ “Write it down. Try it in the morning. Wash your hands. Come to bed.” _

I didn’t. I woke up that morning still at the desk with a print on my arm from where I rested my head. It hurt something awful the next day. 

Now, many months later, I’d finally figured it out. And here I was, watching it come together on a scale much larger than I ever imagined. 

A knock on the door.

Now, many months later, I’d finally figured it out. And here I was, watching it come together on a scale much larger than I ever imagined. 

A knock on the door.

“Do you have a minute?” Joseph asks. “I need an opinion.”

“Come in.” 

He does. I sit on my hands and look out the window, still entranced by the work being done outside.

“Tomorrow the newspaper is coming by for an interview. They’d like to know about how we’re helping…”

Only halfway listening, I keep looking out the window, watching the pregnant woman stretch and sigh. 

“...but I don’t  _ think _ that we should mention that just yet, because I don’t want them to get the wrong impression.”

He trails off. It’s like he can see my line of sight. He knows I’m watching her. 

I feel his hands squeeze my shoulders. He bends over so that his lips are by my ear. “You’re angry.” He says, voice calm and clear. “What’s wrong?”

I watch one of the men stoop down to finish the job for the expectant mother. She thanks him profusely. I envy the attention and the care that she’s being given. At the same time she gets away with doing nothing and eats the same food as he does. The same food that everyone else has to work for. It isn’t fair. I shake my head at it all. I don’t like it. 

At the same time, watching people dote on her fills me with an emptiness I don’t understand. I can’t see her face. But something about her is so beautiful. Maybe it’s the way that they smile when they see her. Or perhaps it’s the way her stomach bulges from beneath her white frock. 

I feel Joseph’s beard scratch my cheek. “Tell me.” He says.

“I don’t know how to put it into words.” I say before I’ve even tried.

“It doesn’t matter. You can tell me anything.”

That doesn’t make it any easier. “They…” I try. “These women come here pregnant. And they can’t work. And yet they still get all of the same food and shelter and clothing that everyone else gets.” I leave out the part about the emptiness. I leave out the fact that seeing them makes me feel jealous in a way that I’m not comfortable trying to explain. 

“Put yourself in their situation.” He says patiently. “Try to think about what you’d want if that was you.”

If that was me… if only that was me. But I know it never will be. “I really can’t.” 

“Think about it” He says. “Many of them have been raped. Or they were too young and they made mistakes—“

“Many of them are my age.” I scoff at the excuse. “ _ I’m _ not that stupid.”

“No. You’re just lucky.”

Lucky. What a way to phrase it. 

The fan whirs in the silence. His fingers find my hair and comb through it tenderly. He almost speaks but says nothing. By his breath I can tell that he’s stopping and starting. It’s not like him to be unsure of how to proceed. 

“Maybe…” he finally lets out, “maybe you wish you weren’t so lucky?” 

I shake my head, completely repulsed by the implication. Or maybe more so by the fact that once again he’s seen right through me and I hate my own thoughts and wish he didn’t come so close to knowing them without me saying a word. “I hate babies.” I say. But it’s not the truth. 

“Why?” He asks. 

“I just do.” I finish.

He moves his arms down so that they’re draping in front of my chest. I see the tattoo of his wife on his arm. 

I remember the story he told me. About how she died before she gave birth.

“Do they remind you of her?” I ask him.

He breathes deeply then offers me what I know I’m supposed to take as reassurance. “ _ You _ remind me of her.”

A soft sad chuckle escapes me. “Is  _ that _ how you know everything I’m thinking?”

“Well.. you  _ are _ very much alike.”

“Do you ever wish you could have your daughter back?” I ask without thinking.

He freezes. “What are you implying?”

“N-nothing! Nothing I wasn’t implying anything--”

He starts to pull away. “That… that’s a very different question.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not implying--”

“The short answer is no.” He anxiously cuts me off and steps away.“No.”

I don’t even ask why. I don’t need a reason. 

But he keeps on defending himself. “No. Babies...they’re too fragile.  Once you’ve… once you’ve watched one of them die-- no. You don’t want to see that again.”

I see his anxiety growing. “I didn’t mean--”

“You don’t want to feel them stop breathing and you don’t want to wake up every morning thinking about how light their body felt in your arms when they went.” He gets more and more frantic. I’m afraid for him. “You just don’t. You don’t want all those months of anticipation to build up. You don’t want to start thinking about them when they’re three or five or ten years old again and then watch them die right in front of you before they ever get to be that old--”

I regret the trauma I just pulled to the surface. How stupid of me. I should have known. I get out of my chair and hold his shoulders stopping him. “Joseph. Joseph. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t asking.”

“God can take life away as quickly as he can give it. It only takes a second for a child to be made and it only takes a second for them to die. They are  _ that _ weak. And  _ you _ ?” He says. “You do  _ not  _ want to go through all that pain. _ I  _ don’t want that for you, do you understand?”

I touch his face. “Of course. Of course. I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t worry. Please. It won’t happen again. You’re not going to have to go through that again.”

His eyes are still moving like the world is slipping away right in front of them all over again. He shuts them to block out the memories. 

I stroke his cheek with my thumb. “Don’t worry…I’m… I’m lucky, remember?”

He opens his eyes. They find mine. 

“I’m glad you’re lucky.”

He holds me like the whole world was on fire but we’d be safe if we had each other.

We part. “I think I’m going to take this to my brothers.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“I’ll be at the main village if you need me.”

He starts to leave. 

“And Faith?”

“Yes?”

“Just… try being nice to them. You might learn something. They’re not as bad as you think. ”

I nod, a bit embarrassed as I watch him go out the door.

* * *

Back outside I make my rounds, checking on the progress being made with the flowers. They fill the air with their sweet euphoric scent. The sun has moved further down the sky and while it is still a very hot day, it has cooled off considerably. 

I reach the planting area that I could see from the study window. My eyes catch the same long dark braid down the back of a white frock of the woman I was watching earlier. She holds a basket above her rounded belly.  When her face turns my way, I recognize her. It’s Megan.

It’s shocking to see her like this. I thought her legs were locked together and would open for no one. Perhaps she does deserve a touch of sympathy. She and I don’t get along. But it’s always different seeing someone you know suffer. 

She stops her work, breathing deeply, shifting her weight and rolling her shoulders, trying to ease the tension. She puts down the basket full of flowers and moves heavily over to a shady tree. Sitting down underneath it, she places her worn, sunburnt hands on her protruding stomach, beads of sweat curling down her hairline, skin pink and supple. She looks so pretty. I hate her. 

I approach her, mainly because I am curious. I wonder what her story is. Who the father is. How she wound up like she thought that I would. And because Joseph said I should try being nice to her and I do what Joseph says. 

“Hello, Megan.” I greet her gently.

She looks up and me, rolls her eyes, and looks away.

I should have anticipated the reaction. “Can I get you anything?” I ask, hoping to neutralize the negativity that has always been between us. 

She sighs long and deep, shaking her head. When she stops she looks back at me. 

“Actually...a glass of water. If you don’t mind.” 

I go back inside and fill an empty jar for her. When I return out her head hangs low. Her shoulders bob up and down. Her breathing is shaky. She is sobbing. 

“Megan…” I sit down next to her. Comfort her, Rachel. Comfort her. 

 I wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Megan, what’s wrong?”

Her head pops up. “Oh…” she sniffles. “Oh it’s nothing, sister, I’m...I’m just pregnant. That’s all. I’m pregnant. Oh God!”

My sympathy doesn’t come naturally at all. I try to soothe her. “You don’t have to work like this, you know.” You need a lot of rest in your condition.”

She shakes her head. “No. No. I have to. I can’t be useless. I must earn my keep. I-“

At least she knows she’s useless. “Shhh,” I soothe, handing her the glass. “Drink.”

She takes several big gulps of water, almost chokes on it, then cries again, only harder.

Some of the other workers turn their heads to look at the commotion. 

“Let’s go inside.” I say. “It’s cool and quiet in the study.”

I help her up. She follows, her movements slow and pained. Inside the woman who was nursing her baby has fallen asleep leaning against the wall. So has her child. I watch Megan’s eyes well with more tears as she grimly looks toward them like she looks towards her own fate. 

“It’s all right.” I say gently, helping her with the stairs. “It’s all right.”

The fan is still on in the study. I set her down in the chair. She swallows the rest of her water and shuts her eyes. 

“Better?” I ask.

She nods. 

I wait for her to cool off and calm down before asking any questions.

“How far along are you?” I finally ask. “It’s… been some time since we’ve seen each other.”

Her eyes are drained and hopeless when she opens them. “Eight months.”

I force a smile. “That means it’ll all be over soon, right?”

She starts crying again. “I didn’t want things to be this way.”

Here she is. The rigid, stern, painfully practical and traditional Megan, all blown up and all alone. Pregnant. Unmarried. Alone.

“The Project will take care of you.” I hear myself speaking for Joseph.

Her cries continue. “I c-can’t… I c-can’t… I can’t look at him the same way ever again…” 

I don’t know who she is talking about but I’m assuming it’s the sorry soul who was unlucky enough to lay her. “Megan...please. It’ll be alright.” I don’t know why but I’m starting to hate seeing her upset. She was always so collected. “I’m sure that The Father will understand-“

Whatever I’ve said has only made it worse. “No! No he won’t! He will never understand!”

“He will forgive you.” I tell her. “He forgives all of us.”

“No he won’t! I’ll never be able to see him again. He will kill me when he finds out! He will!”

Kill her. I think of how Joseph plotted to murder my father. But I quickly push the thought out of memory. It wasn’t long ago but I’ve forced myself to stop grieving. And to forget. He did it for my sake. George had to die. Megan isn’t George. She’s helpful, obedient, and most importantly she’s on his good side. 

“He won’t.” I assure her. Then, it’s almost like I’m assuring myself. “He’s a good person. He loves you.”

“No, he loves  _ you _ .” She whimpers. 

Maybe, but I’ve never heard him say it. 

“You’ll be alright, Megan. He won’t judge you. Do you want me to tell him for you? I’m happy to, or we can go together-“

“You don’t know him at all!” She yells. “You won’t understand until you end up exactly like me! The others are lucky... They’re all dead! But you’re still here… I don’t know how or why  _ you’ve _ managed when all the others…dead and gone. God. God!”

There were others before George. Many others. And despite any promise Joseph made me, in my bones I know that there will be more. I push the thought away. I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong. 

I rub her shoulder softly. She’s not making any sense. “Megan…”

She inhales sharply and turns to me with mania in her eyes. “He’s the father.”

I don’t see why she’d be saying that. “Of course he is.”

“No!” She screams. “No, Rachel! He  _ is _ the  _ father _ !”

She’s confused, poor thing. “Megan-“

“He’s the father! He’s the father!”

“Megan, honey, you’re not thinking straight.”

“I’ve never been more clear or more honest, Rachel. It’s Joseph. He’s the father.”

What?

No.

My mouth twitches. “Y-you mean… ”

She nods. I feel my throat tighten and my ribs constrict. I can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry.” She says, tears rocking her like a thunderstorm rocks a ship out at sea.

Her apology is meaningless. 

“You’ve...he… slept with you?” My teeth chatter. 

She keeps crying. “Rachel I am so sorry.”

“He…” I don’t know what to say. How could anyone know what to say? “He...he what?”

She keeps apologizing but it doesn’t do anything. “I’m sorry, Rachel.”

I can’t do this. This can't be happening. Dear God tell me it's not true!

“I was jealous of you…” She swallows hard. “And I told him. I told him what you told me--”

I’m cold and cruel. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him what you told me.” She repeats. “I… there’s a reason for all this. It’s my fault. 

“What did you say? What did you tell him?” I demand. 

“The same thing you told me.”

“Spit it out!”

“That you can’t have children.”

He lied to me. 

Everything fuses together like an explosion in reverse. Everything. I see the tattoo on his arm. I look like  _ her _ . I’m the same age that  _ she  _ was. We have the same spirit. I’m a perfect replica. A second chance. But there was one thing that I couldn’t replace. And he lied about not wanting a replacement. Whether he lied so I wouldn’t feel bad doesn’t make a damn difference. He lied. And he knocked up a woman who I couldn’t despise more. 

“He wants his family back.” I whisper.

“No.” Megan says. “He wants back the family he never got to have.”

I was the closest thing. But that  _ thing _ was missing. 

I look at Megan and I hate everything. Her face. Her voice. Her body. Her womb. Her child.

“Get out.” I say. 

“Rachel I’m so sorry-”

“Get. Out.”

“Get out before I kill you and your goddamn kid!”

She takes me seriously after that. She stands. I can’t look at her. The floor creaks beneath her. I hope she falls down those stairs.

* * *

Everything is blurry on the car ride to the compound. I practically jump out before the driver even stops. I head toward the biggest building. When I get close I hear the Joseph and his brothers discussing plans for the visit from the press tomorrow. 

I barge in.

“Joseph I need to speak with you.” 

The trio is silent. Joseph looks at me dismissively. “I’m a little busy. Later?”

“No.” I say, trying to maintain my composure. “I need-- I must speak with you. Now.”

He completely ignores me and goes back to discussing plans. I storm over and push the materials off of the desk. They stare at me, shocked by the outburst.

“Megan is pregnant.” I seethe.

He blinks his eyes innocently and smiles at me like I’m a little girl. “And?”

“With  _ your _ baby.”

He’s quiet. Jacob and John stare us down. 

“Your baby.” I repeat. I feel the tears coming on again. God I just want them to  _ stop _ . “Tell me it’s not true. Look me in the eyes, and tell me it’s not true.”

Suddenly, I’m hopeful. I'm hopeful that he’ll just smile and start laughing and tell me how silly that thought is. Remind me of what he said today, how he didn't want to go through that again, let alone with _her_. I hope Megan is lying or she’s gone crazy. Perhaps I am overreacting. I don’t know his side of the story yet. I just hope his is different. 

He looks me straight in the eye.

“It’s true.”

The momentary air of hope deflates fast and painfully and I can’t control my anger. I lunge for him, grabbing his shirt, hitting him with everything I have and digging my nails into his skin. I could kill him. I’d like to claw out his eyes. Break his ribs. Castrate him.

“How could you do this to me?  _ How could you do this to me _ !?” I shriek, demanding an answer. 

Someone grabs me by the shoulders and tears me away from him. When I stumble backward I realize it is John. Those eyes hot like blue fire once again. He tries to block me from attacking Joseph.

I ram into him, pushing against him with all the weight my small body can provide. I am screaming. 

“Why  _ her _ ?!” I cry at Joseph. “How could you?! How  _ dare _ you!”

He stands, hair and clothes disheveled from my scratches and hits. Notoriously calm he gets out of his chair and comes around the desk. 

John holds me back. If I can’t touch him I’ll cut him with my words.“I gave up everything for you!” My screams ring in my own ears. “I left my family! I betrayed my only friend! My father is  _ dead _ ! I gave up my  _ future _ and you… you… you  _ lied! _ ”

He isn’t phased. He speaks with a disciplinary tone.“You gave everything up? What did you have that was worth sacrificing? You didn’t lose anything worth losing. I saved you.”

“You made me believe…” I cry. “You made me feel things that I-“

“I did all of that for you and here you are, bursting with rage. You’re an ungrateful child.”

How could he be so cruel?

“Why  _ her _ ?” I scream. “Why?”

“I do not need to answer to you.”

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt me? Or do you just not care?!”

Jacob steps in. “Easy.”

Joseph is angry now. “Not care? Not care?! You ought to know by now how much I care. Who has kept you fed and clothed? Who has given you comfort after comfort after comfort for every trite-“

“Stop it.” Jacob says. 

“I want her  _ gone _ .” I demand. “Do you hear me?  _ Gone! _ ”

Joseph stays firm, voice loud and dead serious. “I won’t get rid of her. She’s given so much to our cause. We need her.”

I wring myself free from John’s grasp.“If I am as important to you as you say then you’ll  _ get rid of her and her baby _ .”

“You don’t know what you’re asking me to do!” He barks loudly. By the look in his eyes and the clench of his jaw I see a pain unimaginable boiling to the surface. But I don't pity him now. 

“I. don’t. Care!” I seethe. 

“You selfish, stupid--!”

“Selfish?  _ Selfish _ ? I gave up  _ everything _ \--”

His palm is in the air, moments from striking my face. Jacob’s fist grasps Joseph’s wrist. Everything freezes. My ears are ringing. I hear my heart pounding. All that can be heard are the sharp breaths and the silence. 

“Come on, let’s go for a drive.” Jacob says to me.

Out of the instinct to protect myself I get behind Jacob. God I hate being weak. My anger has turned me to stone. A fountain, really, as water runs from my eyes. I’m so sick of crying. 

“No.” Joseph retorts. “No. She’s not going anywhere.”

“She isn’t leaving. I’m taking her for a drive. That’s all.”

“Just for a drive.” He repeats. “Just til you cool off.”

* * *

The car stops near a ledge on the winding mountain road. The air is crisp and cool. It’s light inside my lungs. The smell of pine and nature and fresh water is soothing. 

Jacob sits down on a rock besides a tree and pats the space on the stone beside him. I sit beside him quietly. 

The view is incredible. All of the trees sloping down the mountain. A large lake in the distance. I can see even so far as the valley, where the ground starts to even out and the plains are flat for grazing. The wind rocks the plants gently.

“You can see everything from up here.” I say.

Jacob says nothing. I look up at him. His head is bobbing slowly in agreement. 

“Listen.” He says. “If you want to leave, now’s your chance.”

I wasn’t expecting that at all. My eyes return to the view. “Leave? Leave the Project?”

“Yes. You’re young. You’re smarter than you think. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. If I were you kid, I’d run. Run before shit hits the fan.”

Is that a warning?

His advice sinks in but I can not take it. 

“I could never leave.” I mumble.

“Why?” He asks. 

“Because… I love him.”

I hear his big lungs take in a long deep breath and release a low sigh. Somehow that reason, that abstract, intangible, purely emotional reason is more finite than any other. It's hopeless. It's binding. It's locked and sealed and chained. 

“Look, kid. Back there… I saw something in him I hoped I’d never see. Don’t know if Joseph told you about our dad? Our old man?”

I shake my head. "Maybe a little... but I don't remember."

He takes a minute and then goes on. “Back there… when he raised his hand to hit you… I saw my dad. And in you, I saw my mother. Weak. Afraid. Vulnerable. As soon as I was big enough, even the time before then, I was the first to stand in front of my mother when my father raised a fist at her. I never thought in a million years that Joseph would turn out like that. I thought that after what we all went through we’d break the chain.”

He turns to look me dead in the eyes. “But it’s in our blood, baby. We were born bad. All three of us. We were bred by monsters and we will become monsters ourselves if we haven’t already. And that kid in Meg’s belly? He’ll be a monster too.”

I know he’s telling the truth. I feel my eyes getting hot and wet again. The wind isn't helping. I don’t want to cry anymore. 

“I know you think your love can change that.” He says, voice deep and raspy and comforting in it’s own way. “But… he doesn’t deserve it.”

My helpless broken heart is bleeding on the inside. "He may not deserve it. But that doesn't mean I can let him go."

"Your afraid. I know. I know it feels that way now. But one day you'll look back and it won't hurt anymore. One day the pain will just be a scar. And you'll look at it. You'll remember it. You'll think of it every time you see him. But it won't hurt anymore. All that will be left is the memory. But if you keep trying to fix what's already broken then you'll just keep opening up the wound. If I were you I'd leave before you think of opening it up again."

Deep down I know he must be right, but I can't imagine life without Joseph or love without pain. I can't imagine that there is anything outside of us, anything better, anything easier, anything more right. 

“If you have so much doubt,” I begin, “then why don’t you leave?”

He sighs and shakes his head. 

“Because he’s my flesh and blood. I don’t think I ever told you just what kind of mess I was in when he found me… I owe him my life. But you? You don’t owe him anything.”

Jacob's hard, meaty hand fidgets with a stick on the rock. He’s thinking. He chuckles bitterly, grim at the thought of it all. “Not after what he did to you… not after what he made us do to your poor dad.”

Then he stops. He looks into my eyes with a fierce sincerity. “You can choose to stay with us if you still think it’s a good idea. I won’t stop you. But if I can protect you from him… I will.”

My heart needs a promise like that right now. Something to hold on to when everything else has started to burn. I lean over and kiss his rough cheek.

He accepts it silently and looks back out at the view. 

"Listen to me, kid. When we get back, I want you to ignore him. Understand?"

"But why?"

"It'll prove to him that you can live without him. Then he'll feel bad. But if you let him back in, you'll just prove that he's got you wrapped around his finger. So ignore him. He will probably come knocking at your door and beg you to let him in. Don't let him."

I don't know that I'm strong enough to do that. I can't promise him that I will be able to. So all I say is, "Okay."

The birds are the only ones talking at that point. We sit like that in pensive silence until the air gets cool and the sun starts to glow like an ember before he finally says, “Let’s head back.”

* * *

I sit on my bed, unable to sleep, listening to the crickets and the night time birds when Joseph knocks on the door just like Jacob said he would. 

“Rachel?”

I do as Jacob said. I ignore him.

“I know you’re in there… please. Open the door."

This is a test of strength. Why do I still  _want_ to see him? Shouldn't I be filled with hate at this point?  I'm starting to see how attached I am to him. How much I  _need_ him. Need him despite the fact that he's dangerous and bad for me. He kills me and he makes me better. The more I need him, the more he hurts me, and the more he hurts me, the more I need him. 

“Please, Rachel…”

It’s so hard to hear him beg. 

“I broke my promise. I hurt you. I’m sorry. Please let me see you, little dove. Let me make it all okay.”

I want that. He knows I want that. It’s harder and harder to resist letting him in to my room. I see his shadow move across my floor from beneath the doorway. He shifts restlessly. I stand. I try to resist the magnetism between us. I shouldn’t forgive him so easy but I miss his arms already.

But this was one instance. People fight. Especially people in love. Are we in love?

I catch myself. Here I am, justifying an addiction worse than anything I've ever had before. 

He keeps talking, the sound of his voice a growing temptation, a siren's song. “I know you can hear me. I know you’re in there. I need you. Just let me see you.”

I turn the doorknob, opening it just a crack. It's like opening a pack of cigarettes for just a look, or opening a bottle of booze for just a sniff. It's looking at the road beneath the wagon just to see whats there. But when I see his face the wanting gets worse and worse and worse. 

“You know I hate seeing tears in those eyes.”

His voice. His presence. His touch-

But he hurt me. He hurt me. He hurt me.  

“You caused them.” I callously remind.

He reaches his hand through the crack in the door. I step away, trying not to get pulled back into his darkness. 

“Don’t desert me.” He begs. “Please. Let me in.”

I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m not supposed to. But I can’t decide what I want more: justice or his comfort. 

It’s the latter. I open the door.

He takes me into his arms before I can even say anything. He apologizes profusely. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

It feels like I’m a doll stuffed with sawdust and I’m just letting him hold me. His embrace doesn’t feel the same anymore. I don’t feel the same anymore.

He finally catches on to the fact that I am not reciprocating and slowly lets me go. 

I go sit on my bed. He follows like a dog and immediately plants himself right next to me. I scoot away, wanting space. I feel him sulk at the rejection. 

Something tells me this is the last time that we will sit like this together. 

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

He sighs deeply, shaking his head at himself. “I don’t remember.”

“Did she…convince you? Did she bribe you?”

“She told me…that you couldn’t.”

“What?”

“She told me you couldn’t.”

I nod painfully. Not so lucky after all. 

He notices my sadness and tries to touch me but I move my leg away. He tries to fix his mistake, to make me feel okay. “It didn’t change how I think of you--”

“But it did.” My honesty is cutting. “I was no longer a perfect replacement.”

He doesn’t refute that. 

I think of our conversation this morning. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want—“

He cuts me off. “Something… came over me. Just for a second--”

“You thought you had a second chance?”

His jaw clenches. His voice is barely there. “Yes.”

I swallow. The truth can’t be helped. And I can’t move on. There is nowhere to move on to. He’s all I have and I’m stuck with him and whatever decision he makes. All I can say is, “I understand.”

“So you’ve forgiven me?” He asks hopefully.

Clearly he’s misunderstood. It’s not that simple. It could never be that simple. “I don’t know that I can. I don’t know that I ever will.”

He takes my hands. “Faith. My Faith.”

That’s not my name.

“Sweetheart.”

I keep my eyes glued to the floor.

“Look at me.” He says. 

He knows my weakness. I look at him. His blue eyes are full of regret and misery. 

“She’ll be on the first train tomorrow.” He assures me, referring to Megan. “You’ll never see her, or her baby, ever again.”

But I will. I’ll imagine them every day. I’ll picture her painful delivery. The tiresome years she’ll spend bringing up the bastard. And I will wonder if the child will have his eyes or hers. 

When I say nothing he slowly slips his hands away. He leans forward, places his elbows on his knees. A sad sigh. He hides his face. I watch his hair fall over his shoulders 

“You wanted that to be your child.” He says.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks helplessly, almost like he’s asking God.

I lift my hand, my dry, pale, roughened hand and place it on his back with a delicate hesitance. 

“I want the same things that you ask of me.” I say. “Faithfulness. Loyalty… eyes only for you. To me that’s only fair.”

He sits back up and tries to kiss me but I hold a hand to his lips. 

He’s taken aback by the gesture. “Why?”

“Give me time to trust you again.”

He holds my shoulders, voice pleading. “How much time?”

“I don’t know.”

Gradually accepting my position he begins to pull away. I gather that he isn’t used to rejection. 

“And in the meantime?” He asks.

I tilt my head. “What about the meantime?”

“What are we… to do?”

Why is that even a question? “We wait.”

He scoffs. 

“Do you have a better idea?” I genuinely inquire. 

There’s an anger, an irritation in his tone. Resentment, even. “Perhaps we should see other people.”

I’m disgusted by the suggestion. He’s so full of shit. I should have known he wasn't really sorry. “That’s no way to regain my trust. And you couldn’t handle it.” I say.

“Of course I could.”

“No, you couldn’t.” I assert. “You’d drive yourself crazy if you knew I was with someone else.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” 

It stings like a needle, a rush of pain in my heart instead of my arm. I say nothing. For a moment. Then, I realize.

“It’s just what you led me to believe.” I say. 

“You wanted that to be your baby.” He says again.

I make myself clear. “I didn’t want anything other than your loyalty. Was that too much to ask?”

I hate his silence.

And I hate having to justify my wants. “I know I’m young.” I say. “ I know I’m not… not always rational or reasonable and I know that you probably think that you could do anything you wanted and I’d still stay and… you’d be right about that. I wouldn’t be surprised if by the time this was all over you broke every promise you ever made to me. But all I ask… if I mean anything to you at all… all I ask is that you give me what I’ve given you. That is all.”

He stands up and moves towards the door. I count every footstep. He puts his hand on the handle. He’s quiet. Then after a moment:

“So…” He says. I watch a tear streak his face and hit the floor in a drop. “So...that’s how it is?”

“I can’t have it any other way.” I say. “Either it’s you and me from here on out or… there isn’t any us. Make the choice.”

He opens the door and walks out.


	15. Hunters in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new year, a new act <3 This takes place three years after chapter 14. 
> 
> Hope everyone has a wonderful new decade full of blessings, growth, and love. As always, thank you for reading this story.
> 
> EDIT: there might be more errors than usual :/ my apologies. Lots going on.

The wind howls through the worn down windows of my room. It reminds me of how lonely I am. I don’t dare move from this spot in my bed. It’s the only spot that’s warm. Snow rests high on my windowsill and ice flecks out like veins from a spot in the corner of the glass. It almost looks cracked. I wonder if the wind will burst through at any moment and cover me in snow and freeze me to death right here, right now. 

I feel like if it did no one would come check up on me. I feel like if I died no one would care. 

Since Joseph and I stopped seeing each other I have slipped into a sadness so severe I simply see no light. As our numbers grew week by week the more alone I felt. I live worlds away inside a head that traps me and keeps me from the company that I long for. I hold my radio, thinking of trying to reach someone. But everyone is busy. Everyone has bigger things to worry about. 

I toss the radio aside, stand, and begin to bundle up in the same getup I wore yesterday and the day before then. Everyone needs four layers not to freeze in this weather. 

I put on my mother’s olive green double breasted coat. Somehow it still smells like her. Our dog chewed the hem when I was thirteen. I barely remember that day. Mama didn’t want to buy a new one but she wouldn’t say why. Maybe it was because she didn’t like to replace things that weren’t broken and she didn’t like buying things she didn’t need.

With my boots and hat and scarf I step outside. Cold is an understatement. It’s the kind of cold that makes your skin tingle and tighten as blood vessels constrict. It’s the kind of cold that forces you to bundle up until you sweat. Even the air feels like it is frozen. When they say that heat rises and cool air sinks, this air is crushing. It weighs everything down like a heavy blanket that provides no heat. 

I walk through the compound. Some children are bunched together and working on a snowman. Others toss the white flakes into the air and run and gasp with glee when they jump into it. Their parents, on the other hand, are grey like the sky and almost everything else. Their eyes are sullen and their faces are worn. Some work to build fires. Others spin wool into yarn which others are knitting. They look to me desperately as one of their leaders, and the most approachable and sympathetic one at that. I smile at them somberly, giving them eyes that say I know that they’re struggling and I wish that we were doing better. 

On a black steed with his hair to his shoulders, in a black cape and boots and winter coat, John rides back. Hunters follow his lead coming from the south. They ride with false pride. All of the animals have either frozen to death or are hiding. The children play in the snow unaware that they might not be eating tonight. 

John saw this problem coming. He knew we couldn’t continue feeding and housing a growing population without buying more farmland or taking it by force. Joseph didn’t listen to him. He said that God would take care of it. God was wrong. Pretty soon there will be nothing left and it’s Joseph who will take the blame. 

“Your cheeks are like roses, Sister Faith. They make you look like a baby.”

On the inside I feel like an old woman. Twenty one years old and tired of life once again. My body untouched and uncared for. I feel like the trees, black and empty against an emptier sky, just shaking in the wind.

“Were you successful?” I ask, ignoring his comment all together.

He dismounts his horse and speaks to me lowly, avoiding making a grim expression that would cause anyone watching to be nervous. 

“We shot ten crows.” He says.

“That’s _all_?” I ask. 

Barely a nod.

I look into his eyes. We used to hate each other. But time uncoils even the tightest of springs. Once we discovered our mutual disagreement with Joseph’s unrealistic approach to keeping everyone fed and clothed we became allies, if not friends. That and other incidents, secrets, rather, have brought us closer together, much like siblings. Still though we haven’t completely built up a trust. 

“How are we going to feed five hundred people with ten crows?” I ask him under my breath that comes out as a cloud in the cold. 

His eyes are glued past my shoulder when he pulls me in and kisses my forehead. His lips are warm and feel nice in the cold weather. He’s an excellent actor. We made a deal a few months back. His pretend affection for my silence. 

“Ask your Jesus.” He mutters as he throws another look past my shoulder. 

I turn. The kiss was well timed indeed. Joseph is trudging up the hill to where we stand, gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his wool coat. He saw that. His eyes move down to his boots in the thick snow. His hair is covered by a knit hat and his neck is surrounded by a scratchy gray scarf that looks warm but uncomfortable. When he gets closer I see a patch of skin near his jaw that was turning red from the friction. I try not to think about his skin too much.

He extends an arm to his brother, trying not to display animosity for what he just saw. “John.”

It’s a short embrace. They part. Joseph looks at me like he’s looking through glass at something untouchable, like a toy on a shelf that won’t be shared. 

“Hello, Faith.” He smiles, but his eyes don’t show any sign of happiness. 

I don’t say anything. I look at him through the same glass, completely isolated. My loneliness creeps back in. I keep thinking about his skin. 

He looks back at John. “Were you able to catch anything?”

John sends his men on their horses down the hill to the stable. When the three of us are alone he tells the truth. 

John delivers the same news. “We shot ten crows. Two foxes were caught in our traps. But that’s all. And there’s no sign of any other game for miles of this area.”

My sigh is visible in the cold air. “What are we going to do?” 

Joseph sighs too, knowing that our situation is growing more dire day by day. “We have grain.”

“ _Grain_? For all these people? All winter? That’s it?” I bark.

I feel his eyes on me. His gaze makes me want to hide. 

“It’s not much.” He says to John. “But it’s something. At the very least we will have bread.”

I think of what I would do to taste a tangerine right now. 

“Are you cold?” I hear him say.

I glance at him, just long enough to see him undoing the scratchy scarf around his neck. “I’m fine.” I state.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m perfectly warm, thank you.” The truth is that I am freezing but I am afraid of what the smell of his skin will do to me. 

He backs off. I catch him winding the fabric back around his own neck in my peripheral vision. 

John doesn’t even ask when he takes his own scarf off and puts it around my shoulders, another genius and well-timed move. It’s soft. Must be expensive.

“I think we ought to call a meeting.” I say to John, not to Joseph. 

“Wait until Jacob returns.” Joseph says.

I look toward where the forest tapers off into the compound, watching the trees for any sign of Jacob and his hunters. Unlike John’s gang of posers, Jacob gathered people who truly knew how to hunt. Men and women who had lived in the mountains for years and knew the migration patterns of all the big game animals: deer, elk, bears and the like. Even when the snow made the animals hard to find his group consistently outperformed John’s. They travelled by foot to be as quiet as possible. One girl who I vaguely recognize from my days spent living in the convent had proven herself to be one of the most valuable members of the team. She was quiet and patient and moved like the wind. Not pretty, but strong. 

“I guess if they aren’t back yet, that must be a good thing, right?” I speculate.

John chuckles. “You know nothing about hunting.”

“Coming from the guy who only shot ten crows that doesn’t mean much. And you weren’t alone. Ten crows for ten hunters… that’s an average of one per person.”

“And two foxes.” He says. 

“Yeah. Inside traps.” I say.

He keeps trying to earn credit. “Traps that _we_ laid.”

“Did you lay them? Or did one of your men?”

We grin at each other. Our bickering has softened over the years to that which feels like a game. He drops the game and digresses. “You know my old man and I would go hunting during the summers. For sport.”

Joseph interjects. “You mean Mr. Duncan?”

“Yes of course I mean Mr. Duncan. _Our_ dad was never sober enough to shoot-- not straight, anyway... ”

In their discourse I look at the scattered trees and see the outline of people coming down the hillside carrying several large carcasses.

“I see them!” I shout. “Look!”

In my excitement I start to run over to greet them. When I get closer I see that there are three deer and one big fat bison. 

Jacob looks like an animal himself, with furs on his shoulders making him appear bigger and taller than he was to begin with. His beard has gotten longer. The unkempt red strands were flecked with snow and bits of branch from the forest. 

Perhaps it’s the relief of seeing so much food brought back, perhaps it’s because he’s a sight for sore eyes, or perhaps it’s because of some impulse toward comfort and companionship beyond my cognizance, but I throw my arms around him and squeeze him tight.

“Look at you!” I squeal. “I knew you guys would find something! I just knew it!”

“H-hey.” He says, a little surprised. Then, a whisper. “Don’t get too excited. It might not last us more than a day.”

He turns back to his troupe and points down the hill toward a barn. “Go get the deer skinned right away. Half of you start tanning, the other half start cooking. We need the hide for blankets and the meat for dinner. Preserve the bison in salt and pop the deer into a big pot with whatever vegetables we got. Stew tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

“And get some extra help too. We gotta act fast. I reckon everyone is hungry.”

We all are. 

Joseph and John catch up.

“Excellent work.” John commends.

“What would we do without you, Jacob?” Joseph asks.

“Oh, nothing much.” Jacob says. “Freeze. Starve. Die. That’s about it.”

I laugh a little too loudly at his dark humor. He raises a meaty gloved hand to ruffle my hair, causing my hat to fall off. He kneels and picks it up for me. 

“And what’ve you been up to?” He asks.

“Oh, nothing.” I say. “Just… waiting to be needed, I guess.”

Taking that as a cue Joseph touches the space between my shoulders. Shivers run everywhere from the spot. My heart pangs with loneliness again. I resist the urge to lean into his hand. But it’s so hard. “Faith,” he says, “why don’t you run ahead with John and set up for the meeting in my quarters?”

Is that an order? “Sure.” I say.

John and I head back down the pathway, towards the church, passing all the people and the children. A snowball hits John’s shoulder. He turns and gives the kids the kind of stare that a rattler gives before it strikes. I grab his arm and pull him along.

“They’re just kids.” I remark.

“My God, how you’ve changed.” He replies. 

“What?” I ask.

“I remember when you looked at them like they were the most awful creatures on this earth. Maternal instinct finally hit you? Your time of the month or something?”

“Probably the former. Because the latter is never the case with me.” I say.

He slows down. “You mean you haven’t-”

“Not for… what? Almost five years? Don’t ask what’s wrong with me. I don’t know.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Don’t be.” 

I open the door to Joseph’s cabin. My blood runs heavy when I see it again. It’s exactly as I remember it. Clean, save for a slightly messier desk covered with papers, pens, and a bible. A small table sits in the very center of the room with a pair of simple chairs around it. In the corner near the fire there is one large chair that was old yet comfortable and ideal for reading. The red quilt on his bed makes me want to cry. But I don’t.

John takes a seat. I remember out of nowhere the exact drawer where Joseph keeps a tin of teas.

“Tea?” I ask.

“Sure.” John says. 

I approach a countertop on which an electric kettle rests. Below it is the drawer, and above is a single cabinet where he keeps the mugs. I start to gather the necessary materials immediately.

John looks around the place. “You know where everything is?”

“Oh, of course.” I laugh cordially, feeling like a housewife hostess. I fill the kettle with water and start it immediately. “I mean, the room itself hasn’t changed. He likes all his stuff in one place, neat and tidy. You should see his sock drawer. And the book shelf? Alphabetized.”

John sits in the large chair by the fireplace. “It’s cute how you know everything about him.”

I take out the tea tin from the drawer. Poking out from behind it, I see an envelope. I pull the drawer out further out of curiosity. I catch my name, _Rachel Jessop_ , in the to address. And in the from? _Tracey Lader_. Huh. I peek into the drawer and see that there are more, all addressed to me. 

 In light of my discovery I respond to John. “I don’t know everything about him. Not even close. Nowadays it’s like I hardly know him at all.” I sigh, getting back on task. “I’m afraid all we have is English Breakfast. That alright with you?”

“Sure.”

I take out my letters first. Then I see that they are opened but with the contents still inside. It bothers me, it catches me off guard, but I decide to deal with it later. I take down two mugs from the cabinet. “Joseph is very particular. Not one for much variety. He drinks this when he needs to stay up late and finish… writing or reading or whatever else he does. Coffee isn’t… he used to complain it upset his stomach, but I think it’s really because he considers it too much of an indulgence.”

“How do you know all of this? I didn’t even know this, and he’s my own brother.”

I watch the water boil. “You learn a lot about a person when you…” I try not to think of the memories. They creep in anyway. Random conversations at two o’clock in the morning or nine a.m. that meant nothing and yet meant everything to me. “When you spend nearly every night together.” I shake my head. “God. Three years feels like thirty.”

“But you still… talk?”

“Oh yes! Yes of course.” I pour the hot water. “I mean, we have to. I still live here and I still see him every day. It’s just… much less intimate. Usually it’s about bliss or… sometimes he’ll ask if I need anything. I try not to check on him, you know? Because I don’t want him to think that I miss him too much.”

I bring the cups to the table and set them down.

John grabs my wrist gently. I look into his eyes.

“It’s very clear that you do.”

I look away. “I wish it wasn’t so obvious.”

“You know sometimes I think your coldness towards him is the biggest giveaway.”

“Do you think he knows that we’re just pretending?”

John thinks for a moment. “No… I think that he believes that we’re into each other. I think he knows how badly he fucked up. There’s no reason why you wouldn’t go after someone better after what he did to you.

Clearly John thinks that he is better. I like him more than I used to but he’s still annoyingly vain. I sit down next to him, holding the hot drink in my hands. “Do you see your lover much?”

He takes out a silver flask from his coat and pours liquor into his mug. “I don’t really. Not that one.” He says it as if people were cars or horses or objects. “He joined Jacob’s group. Not that it matters. He can do as he pleases. He was fine but I’ve known better.”

I’ll never forget what I walked in on that day. I went looking for John in the valley. I found him in a barn. His face was flushed pink and his black hair was wet from sweat. Ecstasy in his eyes. His voice stretched into high pitched whimpers and moans. I watched his tattooed ribs expand and contract beneath his much larger male lover. I never expected it. But it fit the puzzle well enough. 

Did I blackmail him with this information? Of course, how could I not? After everything he did to me it felt like justified revenge. I told him what I saw and that I knew he was hiding it from Joseph. He said that he’d kill me if I told anyone. I said I wouldn’t tell if he did me one favor: act like he was interested in me whenever Joseph was around. Pretend. It didn’t have to be obnoxious. Just enough to make him jealous. Or sad. Maybe even heartbroken.

“I never asked you how you…” I don’t know how to phrase it. “How you _knew_.”

He puts his mug down. “You really want _that_ story?”

“If you’ll share it.”

He takes out his flask again and adds more to the cup. 

“Shouldn’t you be more careful?” I suggest.

He shrugs. “If you want the story then you’ve gotta let me drink.”

“I’m just worried about you.”

He puts the cap back on and tucks the flask back into the coat. “Come on, Jessop. Don’t tell me you’ve grown soft for me.”

I roll my eyes. “Not _that_ kind of soft. Just…friendly soft. Can I call us friends?”

“You’re supposed to call me Brother.” He says with taunting eyes. 

“I’m supposed to call _Joseph_ Brother.” I sip my tea. “Can you _imagine_?”

“Well, what _do_ you call him?”

I chuckle. It’s full of nerves. What trap is this? “Um… Joseph?”

“I bet you call him daddy, don’t you?”

I knew he’d go somewhere with this. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Oh yes. You do. I can just hear it.”

“I definitely do _not_ .” I try to hide my blush with my mug. “Not _now_ , anyway. Not after what happened. I mean, I didn’t before, either!”

“Yes you did. Don’t even fight it.”

I squint slyly, prepared to fight back.“Did you call your boyfriend daddy?”

“God no!”

I mimick his tone from earlier. “Oh yes. You did. I can just hear it.”

“Point taken.” He surrenders just before he takes a drink. “This tea is weak.”

I laugh at him. “You didn’t even steep it. You just spiked it and tried to slurp it down.”

“I’ve never been a patient man.”

“I know, John.”

“I…feel old.” I say. “Does that make sense? I feel like I’m forty.”

“I think you feel that way because _he_ is forty. Forty one, actually.”

“Is he already?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Oh. Happy birthday to him, I guess.”

“Did you do anything to celebrate?” He gives me a dirty look.

“Fuck no. I _told_ you. It’s been three years since we’ve done anything. Ever since I discovered Megan’s-- condition-- we stopped seeing each other.”

“But he hasn’t replaced you? He hasn’t found anyone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Damn…” he says. “Guess he must really care for you after all.”

“After what he did I highly I doubt that.” I shake my head. “He just needs me. He needs my bliss. And his followers have grown attached to me. I’ve become part of the picture. That’s the only reason, I’m sure. Anyway, you said you’d tell me your story.”

He takes another drink. “Ah, yes. I was hoping you had forgotten.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

He looks into his cup like he’s looking for where to begin. “I guess...it’s a bit of an acquired taste. I know that’s not the case with everyone, but it is with me.”

“How so?”

“It’s like… like this tea. I drink it sometimes but I drink coffee too. Sometimes you live your whole life knowing you like something, like most people like chocolate. And other things you taste and you hate it until you give it a second chance and a third chance and suddenly your palate understands the appeal. I like both. Men. And women. A certain kind, anyway. Not _your_ kind.” He says with a teasing smile.

I smirk at the playful insult. “Get to the story.”

“I grew up, quite honestly, repulsed with homosexuality because Mr. and Mrs. Duncan were repulsed with homosexuality. I hated it because they hated it. Until I’d tasted it a few times.”

“What was your first taste?” I ask.

He gets defensive suddenly. “Are you trying to psycho-analyze me?”

“No, just trying to know you.”

He looks me in the eyes. I see a sweetness there, a rare glint of vulnerability that shines like a precious stone. “If I tell you this story, you’ll be the first and only person who’s ever heard it.”

“John. We’re family now.”

“Alright. Just… keep it between us?”

I nod and wait for him to start.

“I was…fourteen. And I went to one of those private Catholic schools that cost just as much as some colleges. I had a tutor, played polo, tennis, and golf, got top scores on every test I ever took. And I never made a problem for my parents. I don’t remember much about my real parents. I think the thing I remember the best is the sounds my real mother made as she cried. But my adoptive parents? Mr. and Mrs. Duncan? The ones who raised me? I did everything I could to please them. I was damn lucky. And I was grateful.

“My first taste, if we are calling it that,  happened one day at school. One of the older boys said he wanted to show me something after practice. I wanted to fit in, so I followed him. He turned the corner…and he held me against the wall and he kissed me. It was my first kiss. He kissed me hard and he touched me. And…” 

I watch his lips struggle to break free, to admit the truth. I see now that he still houses some kind of self hate for it all. 

“I liked it.” He finishes.

I only smile, giving him the freedom to continue. 

“I didn’t want to admit that, of course, because of what my father would say about… men who liked men. How repulsive they were. How unnatural it was. How they didn’t deserve to exist. How they’d go straight to hell for what they were doing. But that first kiss… I can only equate it to my first cigarette. Once you’ve had a taste, you want more. And you think ‘okay, twice won’t give me cancer’ so you smoke another because the first was better than you thought it would be. And two becomes three and three becomes four and four becomes a pack and it reaches a point where it’s become a habit and you just can’t wait for the next one. I saw that boy twice a week, every week, for almost two months. Each time we went a bit further. But one day, we were unlucky. 

“One of the nuns was on her way to a meeting. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She caught us. Dragged us to the headmaster who called our parents. Mr. Duncan was a top benefactor so I got to stay without a smudge on my permanent record. But the older boy got kicked out. I never saw him again. But don’t think I got off easy. My mom didn’t care so much. I was her precious baby. The little boy she always wanted. It didn’t matter that I was…well, I wasn’t _anything_. I just kissed a boy. I just liked kissing boys. I didn’t even know…I mean I had a vague idea but…I didn’t consider myself gay. I was the same person. I just discovered that I liked kissing boys. Mommy got it. Daddy? Not so much. Not even one iota.”

He goes on. “Mr. Duncan took me into the kitchen that night. And he took his belt off. And he made me take my shirt off…”

John gulps down his tea which had cooled off substantially while he was talking. He drinks it down to the last drop, and when he is confident that the liquor will numb his pain he finishes his story.

“He hit me so many times I lost count. He would ask a question and before I could answer or tell the truth he’d hit me and I’d scream, scream so loud I thought I was dying. Until something just… broke. I wasn’t afraid of him or of the pain. I accepted it. And every question he asked, I always gave the same answer. Yes. Yes. Yes. _Do you still think about that boy?_ Yes. _Are you thinking about him now?_ Yes. _Have you always thought about boys that way?_ Yes. _Are you ashamed of what you’ve done?_ Yes _Do you know that sinners go to Hell?_ Yes. _Do you still love Jesus?_ Yes. _Do you want Jesus to forgive you?_ Yes. Yes. Yes. It didn’t matter that half of it wasn’t true. I found out that accepting everything he said was the quickest way out of my punishment.

“When he finally stopped he hugged me and kissed my head. He was crying. _My boy_ , he said. _My son… my precious and only son_ … _I only want to protect you…_ And he let me go. I went upstairs. Mother wanted to hold me. She was crying too. But I just wanted to be alone. I couldn’t lie on my back. It hurt too much. I thought about killing myself. I really did. But I thought about Joseph. And Jacob. And how they were still out there and how I believed that someday we’d all be together again. So I hung on.

“College was easier. So was the time after that. Mr. and Mrs. Duncan died in a helicopter crash. Typical way you’d expect rich people to die, right? Right inside the metal bird they bought because they were bored. That money could have bought a house back where me and my brothers lived before we got separated. But they died. I was their only heir so I got everything. The family law firm. The estate. All sixteen fucking cars. Everything.”

I sit in silence. I see it now. How his suffering made him cruel. And I can’t help but wonder if my suffering will do the same to me. Maybe it already has.

“I… my dad beat me too.” I tell him. 

He takes out his flask yet again, this time drinking directly from it. “Unfortunately it’s a common problem. I might never have a kid-- or maybe I do have one out there somewhere, who knows?-- but if I did have one… I’d never hurt it. I wouldn’t want it to end up like me. There’s enough assholes in the world already. Best not beat a baby and make more.”

I put my hand on his arm and lower his flask. “I think you should tell Joseph.” I say.

“You know what’s in his bible.” He says, head low in a shame I’ve never seen him wear before.

I touch his shoulder. He doesn’t resist it. I feel his hard muscles loosen under my hand. “He’s your brother. He loves you.”

“Sometimes I think he knows…” He shakes his head. “I think he knows and he wants to torment me with it...sometimes I think he’s using it against me in some way I don’t understand yet. I think he’s got a plan.”

I sigh. “I wish I knew more... I wish I could tell you…but he and I, as you know…”

“He loves you.” He says to me suddenly. It flies off his lips effortlessly, almost as if he was already inebriated. 

I shake my head. 

“If he didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. He would have kicked you out ages ago. But no. He sent that poor woman who was carrying his baby into exile, all because you asked him to. He’d never do a thing like that for anybody else. You’re special.”

“Do you hate me for it, John?”

“Hate you? Not anymore. I did. But not anymore.”

“Why did you?”

“Because…” he shakes his head.

“You can tell me. We’re friends-- family now.”

He looks me in the eye. I see his heart sewn back together millions of times by thin thread from every break in every direction. I see him just hanging on. Just like me. Just barely hanging on.

“Because you know him in a way that I will never know him. And he loves you in a way he’ll never love me.” 

Of course. Of course. Of course.  

The door opens. Joseph and Jacob enter. 

“Took you long enough.” I say.

“Jacob had to throw a few snowballs at the kids.” Joseph says. “Almost knocked one over.”

“It wasn’t my fault! I have big hands!”

“You don’t know your own strength.” I say.

“That I don’t.” Jacob says, taking off his gloves to warm his hands by the fire.

Joseph takes off his itchy scarf with pleasure and hangs it on the door handle. “Faith, since you called this meeting, care to start?”

I’m still not used to taking the reins. But I do my best. 

“We need food. And a lot of it. Hunting isn’t getting us very far. I think we need to discuss a solution.”

They’re all quiet. Joseph speaks. “What’s your idea of a solution?”

He’s being more than a little condescending. I avoid his eyes. “Look, this is America.” I say to the three. “We live in the twenty-first century. Ever heard of a grocery store? A supermarket? We can buy food. I know it’s not exactly anti-capitalistic, but we might have to feed into the system to survive.”

“With what money?” Jacob asks.

“John’s money.” I suggest.

John laughs. “ _My_ money isn’t being spent on food.”

Joseph turns to me. “His money is for… special purposes. Along with most of the donations that new converts supply.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Preparations for the Collapse.” John answers. “Money to build bunkers and silos with. Money for trucks and planes and...that sort of thing. Big money.” John says. Then, with a smug grin. “Mr. Duncan left me a fortune.”

I roll my eyes. “As if I couldn’t tell.”

He blows me a kiss in the air. I try not to laugh.

“We can’t expect everyone to make it through this winter.” Jacob says, steering us back on subject. 

Joseph doesn’t like that truth. “I do not want to let anyone down.”

“You won’t if you make it clear during your next sermon that this is a test from God to separate the weak from the strong.” Jacob says. It sounds like a solution already. “Tell them that if their faith is strong they’ll be chosen. And if their sin prevails they will die. It’s as simple as that. Make food a reward for obedience, hard work, and piety. Those who are living sinfully will starve.”

Everyone is quiet. Jacob’s plan is audacious yet cuts through us with a logic so sharp it passes through our brains almost without second thought. Almost. 

“So… your solution to hunger is to let people starve?” John asks. 

Jacob leans back against the wall. “Let me ask you this, John. If you and a buddy were walking through a desert, and all you had was just enough water for one person to survive-- not both, just one-- would you share the water and let both of you die?”

John chuckles awkwardly at the dilemma. “Well… how else would I do it? If I kept the water for myself, then I’d be a bad friend. A monster, even, for letting another man die. But if I let my friend have the water, then I’d lose my own life. Then again it does seem rather silly to lose two lives instead of one… if we are talking about the math. ”

“See?” Jacob says, pleased with his brother’s perplexion. “You have to ask yourself: which life has more value?”

“That’s a trick question.” Joseph says. “All lives have _equal_ value.”

“Wrong.” Jacob corrects, moving from his spot to take the floor in the middle of the room. “All lives might have equal value during times of plenty and good fortune. And I get it, brother.” He looks directly at Joseph. “You’ve got this Marxist idea in your head that in our family everyone works according to their ability and receives according to their need. But when there isn’t enough for everyone to receive according to your need, you have to choose. When you’re running low on water in the desert, it isn’t practical or possible to just find more water. You have to choose who gets to drink the water. There’s no time for ethics when survival is on the line. Ya gotta ask:  Which life will be more beneficial? Who will accomplish more in the long run as a result of this glass of water? Who _deserves_ to be fed, clothed, and hydrated?”

“Jacob that’s cruel!” I finally jump in. This is not the man I know, the friend that I trust. The guy who throws snowballs at the kids. I try to pull at his heartstrings. “You can’t just let people die because you don’t think they’re worth it.”

He shakes his head and opens his palms like he’s exposing the truth in all it’s vulgarity. “Well I’m sorry, princess, but that’s how it be.”

Joseph sides with me. “I agree with her, Jacob. It’s unfair and unjust.”

“You can’t…” I say, still baffled. “That’s not… what about the people who _can’t_ contribute? What about the children who are young and-and-” I stammer, shocked by how I’ve changed in three years, noticing it like John did earlier. I used to resent those who couldn’t earn their keep, pregnant women and children in particular. Now… I want to protect them. So much is out of their control. 

Jacob cuts me off when I can’t finish my sentence. “It’s called natural selection, sweetheart.”

If he wants to get scientific with me then I’ll get scientific with him. “If the children die then the whole population will disappear by the end of forty or fifty years. If all the women stop having children and we can’t keep ourselves at replacement level, then there won’t _be_ any us--”  
“Baby, we ain’t got forty or fifty years. And take into consideration the rate of emigration. We aren’t a closed ecosystem. We are at the moment, but when this winter passes-- and believe me, it will pass-- more people are gonna join Eden’s Gate. If some die now, it doesn’t matter. The herd will be stronger. And when new ones come, we’ll weed out the weak ones so that this crisis doesn’t happen again in another three years.`”

Why does he keep calling me ‘baby’? I shake it off. “Jacob these are people.” I say. “Not animals.”

“I agree.” Joseph says. His tone tells me he is trying a little too hard to get on my good side. Three years have made us strangers. We speak for matters of business and that’s all. There were times when he’d try to win me over again. But each attempt phased out quickly. I held my ground.

John sighs. “Jake’s got a point though. You have to admit. If anything it’ll make your following rock solid.” He advises Joseph.

That might be enough to sway Joseph. But I can’t tell.

“We need to think about the repercussions.” I remind. “It’s not easy to watch people die. I don’t even know if it’s legal. It would make us look bad either way; letting our kin starve.”

“You’re misunderstanding.” Jacob says. “If they starve, it’s their choice. Because their faith wasn’t strong enough. They _let_ their sin prevail.”

“But _we_ are the one’s judging them, punishing them…” I shake my head. “Joseph, we aren’t God. We can’t do this.”

“Shall we vote?” John suggests.

“Let’s.” Jacob says.

“I suppose.” Joseph agrees. 

“Yes, please. Let’s get this over with.”

“All in favor of…” John can’t even name the plan that has been presented.

“Culling the herd.” Jacob offers up the term.

“... _culling the herd_ , say aye.” John finishes. 

All the men raise their hands. I don’t believe it. 

“Alright, then.” Jacob says. “Joseph, I take it you’ll prepare the announcement?”

Joseph nods, not quite there. He’s already thinking about how he is going to present this to the Project. 

“What about the kids?” I ask Jacob, my voice almost a plea. 

He approaches me like a menace. His eyes show a darkness I haven’t seen before. 

“You’d be surprised by how much free will kids have.” He says. “Maybe if you knew me as a boy you’d understand that. The strong will survive.”

Something strikes a cord in me. I stand, visibly upset by his words. I look into his eyes and try to burn my hatred for this plan into him. It’s cruel. It’s vulgar. It’s inhuman. I break the eye contact and leave.

* * *

Jacob and I move along the line for stew just like everyone else when he apologizes. “Look honey. I’m sorry if I spoke a little harshly in front of ya today.”

More than a little harshly. His comments were beyond redemption. But if things really are changing, then I’d best not show weakness around him. “I’m a grown woman now, Jake. Nothing to shelter me from anymore.”

“Well I think of you as my baby sister, ya know? Always have. You’re never growing up to me.”

What was this now? Him sheltering and protecting a weaker creature after he just talked about letting those like me die off?

“I appreciate that. But--”

“Joseph values your opinion. You’re his sounding block. But sometimes I get carried away, thinking I’m just talking to my brothers, and I forget that you’re younger and so much more sensitive--”

“Like I said, I’m a grown woman.”

“Well, yeah. Yeah. But I don’t always... it ain’t the gentlemanly thing to do to go on about starvation and death in front of a lady. Or to argue with her about it. I just hope I didn’t rub ya the wrong way.”

Sometimes I wonder what century we are living in, in this secluded sect of this state. I’m not sure if I should be mad or not. “You did.” I admit. “Very much so. I mean think of it, Jacob. Think of what this plan means. I don’t think I could survive.”

“Well, you have immunity.” He says. “The Project needs you.” He sighs, hesitating to say the last thing on his mind. “Joseph...John… me. We need you.”

“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about all the others who aren’t so lucky.”

“Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours. It won’t be as bad as it seems. Those who go won’t be missed. Anyway. Enough of that.”

“Do you talk about it with that huntress of yours?”

“Oh, you mean Jane? We aren’t… nothing goin on between us.”

“Really? She seems like your type.”

He chuckles heartily. “How would you know what my type is?”

“Let me guess. Strong. Good genes. Likely to survive natural selection.” 

He sighs. I can tell he feels bad for his speech earlier. “Awh, baby, don’t be like that!”

The way he says ‘baby’ isn’t the way you’d say it to a baby sister. 

“You’re full of pet names tonight, aren’t you?” I say, shaking my head. 

“That strike two for me? Man, I’m really sinking over here, aren’t I?”

I laugh. It feels good to laugh in times like these. “You really are.”

“How can I redeem myself, m’lady?”

There’s something charming about him despite his brutishness. For a moment I almost forget his plan and his heartless will to survive. “Hmmmm…” I say, a sing song in my voice. “I dunno…”

He kisses me. A quick peck on the lips, fast enough to go unnoticed by all. It feels like fire. 

“That a start?” He grins.

It’s the start of something. 

It’s his turn to be served. The woman working, a large, stocky lady, gives him a special kind of smile when she plops a ladle full of succulent pieces of meat and hands him a thick slice of bread. 

“Thank you kindly, m’am.” He says. 

She grins, a faint blush emerging. Then she looks at me. It’s nowhere near as cheery. One ladle of deer stew with not a single piece of meat is plopped into my bowl. Some runny looking vegetable floats around. I sniff the brew. Euckh. I’m handed the tough, chewy end of a loaf of bread. My least favorite bit. Could this get any worse? 

* * *

It was much worse for the others. The children in particular. 

They cry and they fret after mealtime. Mothers have given them everything they could from their shares. Jacob even offered up his bread to one little boy. I don’t understand the contradicting gesture. He must care about them. He isn’t like John. He’s no actor. Then why talk like the weak can die?

They all lie in a tent in the campground, some with mothers and fathers, some without. They sleep with their snowclothes on, for they have no fireplace, no walls around them, no wool blankets and socks. There were too many now to house in a cabin, even with bunk beds. 

They’ve come to associate me with bedtime. Their parents associate me with peace. One by one I go, putting a few drops of cool bliss oil on my fingertips and dabbing it on each child’s forehead, as well as just below their nose to get the drug to the brain faster. After a few deep breaths their little bodies soften and grow heavy with sleep. 

One goes crazy when they see me, lunging for me and trying to grab the oil from my hands. “More,” they say, “more!” And I wonder what I’ve done to them. Making them need this like they need food. I feel horrid. My creation brings both peace and pain. The crazed child’s mother pulls him back. She holds him to her breast. I practice the same ritual again on him, just so he won’t wake the others. 

“Would you like some too?” I whisper to the mother. 

She nods. I add another drop to my fingers and repeat the same action. She shuts her eyes.

Seeing them all sleep soundly in the shivering cold, I leave the tent, knowing I’ve done all I can do. 

I hear Joseph’s voice.

“Are all the little ones sleeping soundly?”

I face him. “The children are restless. The bliss helps them forget that they’re hungry.”

Joseph shuts his eyes and breathes in the night air. “I can smell it faintly from here. How lovely.” He says, as if ignoring their hunger. 

Everyone talks about how smell is the biggest trigger of a memory. For me it’s a memory of us. 

“Would you like some, Father?” I ask

His eyes open. “How’s our supply?”

“There’s plenty, thankfully. We may not have enough food but we have enough bliss. More than enough to get us through the winter.”

“In that case, I’ll have a drop if you don’t mind.

My heart pounds when I’m near him. In the nervous quakes I let three drops of bliss drip onto my fingertips. More than enough. I bring them to his forehead with an extreme reluctance. My arm feels like it’s made of lead but I manage. Feeling his skin makes chills run down my back.

I cap the bottle of bliss, putting it in my pocket where I feel the letters there from earlier. “John and I drank your tea.” I say. 

He gives a smile of recognition. “I saw that. I was looking forward to a cup this evening.” He says matter-of-factly, without any disappointment.

“John said it was your birthday yesterday. I’m…sorry I forgot.”

“Forty one is a very forgettable birthday.”

That’s his way of saying it’s okay. “And I’m sorry about the tea.” I apologize again.

“You should know by now that what’s mine is yours.”

I think of all the envelopes addressed to me, opened and hidden behind the tea box in the drawer. “And my letters? I suppose those belong to you too?” I question. 

He’s taken aback. “We have no secrets.”

“We _had_ no secrets.” I correct. “ _You_ changed that.”

“I meant to give them to you tonight, but I couldn’t find them and I thought I misplaced them-”

“They were dated from weeks ago. They were opened. Don’t lie to me, Joseph.”

He looks down at the snow beneath our feet. He tries to piece together some kind of excuse. “I just didn’t want you to read something that would-”

“That would what?”

“That would make you want to leave.”

 _Don’t_ . I think. _Don’t even try._ Don’t make me miss you more. I was just starting to feel better. Every step I take away from you only pulls me back. Why do you always have to pull me back? 

“You know I would never leave even if I had the choice.” I remind him.

“So… you’re still happy here? Even without-”

“Yes.” I say. “Yes. I am. I am very perfectly happy without you.”

“Without me?” He laughs. “Still think you can finish my sentences? No. I was going to say, are you still happy here even without enough food to eat?”

I hate how he tricks me like this. 

“And I’m glad to see that you have John.” He says. “It helps to have someone in times like these. It really does.”

_Don’t. Don’t be nice. I want you to be jealous. I want you to be angry._

Maybe I’m jealous of him. Of his peace. Of how he can be so okay with us being apart even when I’m not okay.

“Do you have someone?” I ask nervously. 

He looks me in my eyes. 

“I do.”

So I was wrong. Wrong this whole time. Of course. I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to know. Curiosity killed the cat and questions kill hope. I wish I could erase that. I wish I could keep reading into every glance and every touch and every gesture as if it were boiling over with some deep yearning to get us back together. All those neon signs have cracked. Now they’re lifeless bits of glass. 

“Don’t be sad about it.” He says.

He was my whole world and he still is. How could I not be sad? Here I am, feeling completely alone with no one to talk to or to take comfort in and he’s fine. Perfectly fine. 

“You know I appreciate everything that you’ve done for us. And I value your opinion tremendously.” 

Oh, how comforting. 

The wind whistles. I feel my cheeks getting pink again. We stand there awkwardly, not a word is exchanged. 

“Do you believe in miracles?” he asks out of the blue. 

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Do I think we can feed all these people? I don’t know. I’m not sure what is possible anymore. Everything feels like it’s without remedy. I don’t believe in miracles.” I say. 

I watch his hope dwindle like a candle almost blown out. Then, as some truth I didn’t realize I held true, I add:

“But I believe in you.”

The candle surviving the blow, he kisses my forehead. “Goodnight, my Faith.”

He starts to walk away. I want to kiss him. I want to kill him. I never want to see him again and I want to see him for the rest of my life. “Goodnight, Father.”


	16. Slice of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> As one of my favorite teachers once said: writing is never done, it's just due. And I think that this chapter is definitely past due.
> 
> It's been a hot minute. By a hot minute I mean a hot three months. Life really threw some curveballs, but I am excited to be back now that coronavirus regulations have given me more time on my hands, or so it seems. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. It fills me with joy each and every time I get a comment on this fic. You guys have no idea how much you inspire me and help me get through planning this, writing this, hell, even just coping with the stressors of every day life. Though I have been gone, I have not forgotten you, and I certainly have not forgotten this story. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, be happy. Enjoy <3

We are all huddled together in clusters of two or three, sitting under the feeble shelter of a large tent, wrapped in worn blankets. I share one with John. My stomach growls. I hope no one can hear it. 

We all watch him. I watch him. Yes, him. Always and ever him. I don’t like thinking about his name. My beloved Joseph who is no longer mine to love. Who never should have been mine in the first place. My eyes follow his tall form, thinner now than it was in the past from lack of food, as he preaches emphatically as ever, hunger and exhaustion not hindering him in the slightest. His hair hangs loose, and it curls gently about his ears and the nape of his neck. Its the dampness in the air thats doing it. He’d let his beard go. Uneven stubble emerges around his neck, on his cheeks, sideburns. At times like these he just doesn’t think it is important to keep up his appearance.

You’d think that would change things. You’d think I’d look upon him like the street trash and the beggars, like the weak and desolate and dirty. But no. The way he taught us to love and approve of those people, I love and approve of him. 

“My children.” My love says to the group. “I have convened with Brother John and Brother Jacob. As I am sure you are aware thanks to the empty feeling in your stomachs and the weariness in your eyes, we are facing a dire shortage of food...”

He left me out of it. Didn’t even mention that I was there. I slump my head against John’s shoulder, and pull the wool blanket further into my lap. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of looking at Joseph and waiting for him to look back when his eyes find everyone else but mine. There was a time when he always picked me out in the crowd. Now he picks on me. I hate the way he lurks close when we walk, his boot almost stepping on mine. I feel like he is listening in on everything I say. Watching, though not watching. Hearing and yet not near.  I feel like he is trying to know me like he used too. Just prying his way in. Then the very moment I start to believe that’s the case he goes back to being stone cold. Ignoring me. I’m so tired of thinking of him when I know he isn’t thinking of me.

I wonder how things would have gone, on those nights that he won me back over just when I thought I had enough, if I set my terms clearly and distinctly. But it was always the same. Just when I thought of leaving, just when I had the strength and the means, I was always pulled back by fear. Love, but mostly fear. 

I am only realizing now how he charmed me into it all. How he put me under a spell that I didn’t know was a spell at all. I was seventeen. Seventeen. He was thirty seven. Twenty whole years of knowledge and wisdom that I didn’t have. Time so thick I couldn’t see through it. He knows things I don’t. His heart had loved before, and mine? Not once. Not until it loved him.

He preaches on. “...this is not an accident. This is nothing we could have planned ahead for. God put this hunger in our bellies, and he did it because we are not worthy of the gentle hand that feeds us. We have failed to keep sin from our minds and bodies. And God punishes us with this starvation.”

Anger washes over me like a foul smell. Our Prophet is anything but a saint, and here he is, telling us all that we are starving because we are sinful. And I am anything but an angel myself, but I would choose a hot meal over the touch of his hands any day. That’s a lie. I’d gladly never eat another scrap if I could feel like a living, breathing girl again. If I could be his girl again. 

Now he says he has someone else. Who? I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. I wouldn’t know her if I did. I had some speculation about a girl with soft red hair and elven features, her body like a fairy and her face like a queen. Perhaps it was the color of her locks that captured my eye and made me assume they captured his as well. 

Looking at him now, I try to remind myself of everything that keeps us apart, but no reason stifles my feelings or stops my heart from yearning. I take my eyes off of his graceful form and look at the brightness of the firepit. I liken my love for him to that fire. It isn’t a logical or profound attraction anymore. It is a match that lights inside me when I feel him near. It simmers and dulls to a primal flame after the strike. The embers ache as they crackle and glow. Either put the fire out, kill it, let it die, or ignite it again. Give it oxygen. Let the flames breathe. It isn’t love. It is wanting. Wanting. That’s all. 

I feel the disingenuous touch of John’s lips on my head right in the middle of a long pause in the speech. He’s doing his job. I just feel emptier. 

“We live in a culture where nothing is sacred anymore.” Joseph transitions, “There was a time when our bodies were temples. When they were nourished and cared for, not abused and not shared with any save for one true companion. Today? We poison ourselves with muck that nature did not design. We laze and slop about, the meaning of hard work has been completely discarded like empty bags of chips in the wind. And we are so desperate for pleasure that we accept it from anywhere, anyone, even if we have to pay for it or create it ourselves. And I ask you: what is the benefit? A few minutes or hours of fun? A good taste in your mouth? The avoidance of the pain? We are weak. Spineless. We give up the moment that things get hard.”

Was he talking about me? As if I was some common whore? Or us? Is he looking at me and John, sitting here in a forced false pose, and talking at us, not to us, like a complete hypocrite? Fool. If there’s any curse on this project he brought it upon himself. Never marrying, finding one girl after another, lying to them and loving them for someone they would never be. Whichever it is, I hate hearing it. I’m getting sick of hearing him talk. 

“I was married once.” He says, pulling up the sleeve of his sweater to show his wife’s portrait inked into his arm, the start of a tangent that I know will make my blood boil. “I never broke my vows to her. She was ripped from me just before she was going to have our baby. Sometimes God hurts us in order to help us. Sometimes we need to taste pain in order to soldier on down the path that we were meant to take. God is testing all of you now: will you prevail though your hunger? Will you trust him? Will you pray to him? Will you obey him? And if you will not… then you are bringing this suffering upon yourself. Go. Go and live your life as you’d like. Go ahead. Feed yourselves and starve your souls.  Go and delight in the thrills of the flesh of this world. Forget all about the future’s promise. Forget about the garden. Forget me. Go.”

I could.

I could rise.

I could run. 

If only his voice wasn’t a siren’s song. If only my savior wasn’t also my temptor. I see myself going down his dark and dangerous pathway. I know that pain waits at the end. Perhaps death is the guard dog.  But oh, how the thrill bites! How the touch and the look and the smile and the way his eyes flick behind those glasses make even dying worth it in the end. I would be happy for those moments, happy enough to bear the deep irrepressible sadness that was bound to ensue. I could wander into that tunnel with no light at the end. I could. But I shouldn’t. 

I could love him again if I tried. If he let me. If that was the path for us.

I could stand.

I could go. 

I could escape. 

But my thoughts delay too long.

“Good, faithful flock!” He says, immeasurably pleased by his sheep. I am the prize lamb, neglected and grown, now an ewe. One of many. And fenced in.

“This is the matter, my children, this is the solution my brothers and I derived: the faithful will be fed. Those free from sin will feast. The unfaithful will go hungry. The sinful will starve. Now comes the time when we must all prove ourselves. Your self control and your piety will save you. Focus on them now more than ever. We will keep a written account of each of you throughout the week. Brother John will manage the files and will select a few of you to assist him with these tasks. Your report will be scored. And that score will determine how many meals you are to receive that week. If you are able to secure more supplies, to hunt, to bring in your friends and family who have land, horses, and food, you will be able to earn points toward your score. I know we are snowed in. But I expect a lot of letters to be written convincing them why this is the right path…”

The letters. My hand slides into my coat pocket and touches the cool, dampened envelopes. 

Who are they from? What do they say? Why was he hiding them from me?

My heart races. Anxious nerves flutter up. I can’t wait to be dismissed to go read them on my own.

The moment that the meeting is adjourned I am up and trying to weasel my way out of the crowd to get back to my cabin. 

It is cold and quiet inside my room. I am grateful for the privacy but still feel the need to look over my shoulder to ensure that no one is watching. I hear the crinkle of the letters in my coat pocket, a reminder that wets my appetite for curiosity and fuels my desire to know their contents. I pull them out. The ink on the envelopes read with my name and no address. They must have been hand delivered. And all by the same person, for the curve of the letter “R” in “Rachel” is distinct and sloping. 

 

_ October 10, 2015 _

_ Rachel, _

 

_ I’m not writing this to change your mind. I’m not writing this to beg you to leave that place and that man. I am not even writing to ask you to be my friend again. I’m writing because you’re the only person I have left.  _

_ Literally. _

_ My mom’s cancer came back. Of all the things I know you’ve stopped caring about, I know that you loved her. She was a second mom to you once you lost yours. I know she loved you too. But the disease took her. She’s up with your mom now. I think they’re laughing and sharing cigarettes up there, only these cigarettes don’t give them cancer. Wouldn’t that be nice? I imagine heaven to be a constant high you never fall down from. I imagine a world full of smoke, white and green and grey. And you are it’s angel. _

_ Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are to me?  _

_ Doesn’t matter… I’m drunk. Look. Here’s the funeral info. Please come. Tell your boyfriend to come too. I don’t care. I just want to see you. I need to see you. _

 

_ Esther Lorraine Lader  _

_ Monday, October 14, 2014 _

_ Lamb of God Church _

 

_ I miss you. _

 

_ Tracey _

  
  


_ October 22, 2015 _

_ Rachel, _

 

_ I didn’t see you at the funeral last week. Maybe you didn’t get my letter. The storms have been on and off and I’m not sure of the post office is keeping up. Government dollars at work, huh? Anyway, I figured I would drop this one off at the place where your group camps out. Is it a compound? Is that the right word for it yet? Looks like it to me.  _

_ The truth is that I miss you. And I think about you every day. I think about all the awful things I said to you and sometimes I don’t know if I deserve to be alive anymore because of it. I’m sorry Rachel.  _

 

_ Tracey _

__

The last letter in the pile is the oldest of all three. The ink around the date has smudged, but I can make out the year 2012. I tear it open with even more urgency than the others. 

 

_ Dear Rachel, _

 

_ I saw your dad’s obituary in the paper. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry Rachel. I know he really lost it towards the end but I know how much you loved him and how much he loved you. I could go on and on about how sorry I am and how I hope that you’re doing okay, but something came over me that I can’t shake and I need to let you know quickly before it eats me alive.  _

_ I saw a picture of Joseph in the same newspaper that I saw your father’s obituary. “ _ New religious order brings hope for the homeless _ ” I think the headline was. And when I saw those hollow eyes... I got this sour taste in my mouth out of nowhere. I couldn’t help but think… maybe your dad’s death wasn’t a suicide. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. I don’t know. But I would love to see you and to talk. Just talk. Even for an hour or two. You know you can always tell me anything. _

_ Mom sends her condolences. She says you can come and live with us anytime. I know that you like where you are now… but if things go to shit, just know you will always have a place with us. Even if she and I fight all the time, we are a better lot than those folks you’re with now. Trust me.  _

_ A word about your brother: I heard from my mother’s friend that he is within the foster care system. I guess an acquaintance or someone saw his name on the list. I don’t know how it works, but I’m sure it’s not easy for him to find a home given his unique needs. It’s a lot. You were one of the few people who had a heart big enough for the job.  _

_ Those people don’t deserve you. They never will.  _

_ Come back to us. We love you.  _

 

_ Tracey _

 

The repetitive apologies. All the “I miss you’s” seem to multiply. Over and over and over again I see them scattered about the pages. And I start to feel sorry. I start to miss her. And I fear that I will never be able to make up for lost time.

And my brother? Had I forgotten him altogether? Have I really lost who I am? 

I try to put together the pieces. To think of when and where and why I became such a selfish girl. That day that I discovered Megan was carrying Joseph’s baby must have been the moment that solidified my transformation. My heart broke, and when I rebuilt it I had forgotten to leave a space for Tracey, and for my brother, my own kin! And Jacob offered me a way out… I thought I had nothing and that is why I stayed. But here, in these letters, hidden from me… here was my true family. Everything else could have been avoided. I could have changed my mind! What is wrong with me? 

Maybe I should sleep on it. Maybe I should just rest. Maybe I will forgive myself in the morning. 

I undress quickly and climb into bed, holding the papers close to my heart. 

* * *

Hours later, I awake in a sweat from nonsense dreams of letters overflowing from a drawer by the thousands. I was trying to push them in, to keep it shut, but it kept getting fuller and fuller. Letters clogged the tracks and emerged crumpled out from the tops and the sides. I thought it would explode. And it did. But the window was open. They started flying out and away from me. I tried to grab them by handfuls like one of those wind and money machines at the county fair. But it was no use. Absolutely no use. They kept escaping, and with them all their secrets, parts of my history that I didn’t even know and would never find out. 

There’s only one person I can go to. I jump out of bed.

I put my coat over my nightgown and slide my sockless feet into my boots. Even in this freezing weather, I was too warm under my sheets. Nerves, I think. I grab my scarf from the door handle, turn it, sharp and fast. The freezing air slaps my face. I jump off the warped and creaking wooden porch into the snow below. I move fast, trying to get my blood pumping. The hairs on my legs prick up from the chill. I reach the barn, swing open the latch and push the heavy door, granting myself entrance. 

The livestock, the few that are still around, are living better than we are. Or they are more satisfied with life, at least. The air in the barn is warmed from the heat they give off. Their scents mingle with hay. And all their faces seem to be at peace. 

John’s horse, a black mustang, is stationed in her stall. I approach her slowly, being as gentle as possible, trying not to disturb the peace. Her eyelids droop just barely in the kind of half sleep that horses have. She seems to be in more of a trance than in a state of rest. I open her stall, and, recalling to the best of my ability what John had taught me about riding, I saddle her up, saying silent prayers that I am doing this right. Her eyes open fully and she is instantly alert. I hush her and lead her out the barn door, hearing the crunch of her hooves in the snow.

I mount. She’s a well behaved girl. We ride north along the trail that the hunters follow. It’s a long, steep ride. Instinct leads me. Instinct flecked by hope. If I don’t find what I’m looking for… I might ride until I find someone, something, or until I freeze to death. But I can’t die. Not now. Not when I know my friend has been trying to get a hold of me for years. I’m sure those weren’t her only letters. 

Lucky for me it hasn’t snowed tonight, and I am grateful when, after what feels like forever, I see the deep prints of heavy combat boots that form a trail directly to the place I need to be, towards the only chance I have to help me see my friend again.

I knock on the cabin door. 

Jacob opens it too quickly to have been asleep. 

“What… what are you doing here?” 

I don’t quite know where to start. “Can I come inside?”

He speculates, then steps out of the way. “Only because it’s cold out. You’re a fool for coming here in this weather… and dressed like that no less.” He looks at my bare legs. 

“I had to come.” I say. “I just had to.”

He shuts the door hard behind him. “What? Why?”

“Because there’s no one…no one who…” I can’t pinpoint it. It would be easier to just tell him the truth. To tell him about Tracey, about my brother, about the letters Joseph kept from me, about my doubt— he had to understand, right? He offered me a way out three years ago. He must understand. But simple words don’t come. They fumble out awkwardly and formulate one of those petty rants that beat around the bush. “Because I’m so lonely.” I say. “I feel like I’m going to die of loneliness.” That was a start. 

“And you came to  _ me _ ?”

“You’re the only one I could think of who wouldn’t run away.”

He’s suspicious. “If you want  _ that _ kind of company, sweetheart, you could have asked anybody.”

Then I see how silly I am. Coming here in the middle of the night, barely dressed. That’s a message easily misread. “T-that’s not it!” I correct.

“It’s not?”

“No. I… it’s…” 

He sighs and shakes his head. He starts to move into the kitchen. 

Seeing his back turned to me makes me feel desperate. “I don’t want- I don’t  _ want  _ anything from you… just…just talk to me.”

“Sit down.” He says rather dismissively. “Get warmed up. There’s blankets on the couch.”

I do. I shove my cold feet between the couch cushions. It’s already nice to be in a room with a fire and some color. I grab two blankets and settle my weight against a pair of pillows. There's an ashtray on the coffee table, a half empty pack of Marlboro lights beside it. I would ask about them, but they don't surprise me. Not one bit. 

"It's a bit of a mess." I hear Jacob apologize. "Don't get many visitors."

I continue to look around the room. I've always wondered why he stopped staying with the rest of the group down below. But when I hear the warm crackle of the fire, when I see the things arranged in his signature not-too-tidy fashion, I understand why. There are bits and pieces of himself here. Parts of who he is outside the project. Somehow, so far, he has managed to remain his own person. When I think of all I lost... when I think of my home turned into a Bliss lab, my mother's gardens a greenhouse for those plants, all the pictures on the walls that disappeared... It's no wonder I can barely remember who I am.

I’m startled by a dog that appears from around a dark corner. It looks like more of a wolf. The creature barks at me, it’s voice loud and intimidating.

“Pipe down, Pipsqueak.” Jacob commands from across the room. The dog sits obediently. Pipsqueak isn’t a pipsqueak. He’s huge. Tall and sturdy, with long legs and a big snout and ruffed up ears from fighting. 

“Don’t worry about him.” Jacob says. “He’s big but he’s dumb as a brick.”

I cover myself more, so that just my chin is poking out of the blanket. Pipsqueak squeaks. 

“Does he like people?” I ask.

I hear Jacob drop something in the kitchen. “Yeah. Just pat your lap. He’ll jump right up. Heavy feller though.”

I sit up straighter with caution and do as instructed. I gently pat my lap. Pipsqueak’s ears perk up at the invitation. He trots over and doesn’t struggle to jump up at all, unlike how some small dogs do. He makes himself cozy real quick. My cold feet are grateful for the warmth of his body.

“You hungry?” Jacob asks.

I stop scratching around Pipsqueak’s bitten ears. I am surprised by the question. Even if I was hungry, there wasn’t any food. Or there  _ shouldn’t _ be. “Is that a trick question?”

“Would you like something to eat?” He rephrases impatiently.

I crane my neck to look at him over the couch. “I mean I would, but-”

“Look.” He says. “I saw the lady give you nothing but a bowl of broth and a runny vegetable last night.”

I pretend it didn’t bother me. “That was my share for the night. It’s fine. Next time… next time I’ll get a better serving.”

“Faith. I have food. Do you want some food?”

So it’s not a trick question. “What do you have?” I ask mainly out of curiosity. It takes a moment for me to remember that I am hungry.

He looks in the pantry. “Baked beans… corn… clam chowder…” he checks the fridge. “Eggs… bacon, plenty of bacon… fresh rabbit from today… potatoes… milk… butter… oh, and some beer.”

I shift to look at him better. “You have all this and you aren’t sharing any of it with the Project?”

“Do you want something or no?” He demands.

“Um… baked beans?” 

He takes out the can from the pantry. “I’ll cook the rabbit too.” He says. 

“No, really you don’t have to go through the trouble!”

“I was gonna make something for myself anyway. You know anything about cooking? You can help.”

Pipsqueak breathes heavily on my lap. He was out like a light. There’s no hope of moving him. I look at Jacob for help. 

Jacob whistles. Pipsqueak awakens as quickly as he fell asleep, with a few snorts and a shake of his big head.

 “Come get a treat, boy.” Jacob calls.

Pipsqueak leaps from the couch and, after another vigorous shake, runs, tail wagging, into the kitchen.

I get up too and head over, bare feet tapping on the wooden floor. “How come I’ve never met…” I try not to laugh at the name. “Pipsqueak?”

“He’s new.” Jacob says, setting the can of baked beans and an opener in front of me. “I found him in the woods about a month ago, right before the snow set in. No collar. If anyone would think to put a collar on  _ that _ beast.”

I get to opening the can. “What happened to his ears?” I ask.

“Well, you know, dogs will be dogs. Probably got into a fight. More than one by the looks of it.” He chucks a piece of raw rabbit on the floor. Pipsqueak runs to it and wolves it down. 

I pour the contents of the can into the pan on the stove. 

“Why are you hiding food from the Project?” I ask him as he starts to slice up bits of the rabbit to add to the meal.

“I’m not hiding it, I’m just not sharing it.” He replies.

I turn up the heat. It feels good being close to the flames. “Well… we are all supposed to share everything. That’s how it works. It isn’t fair if you get to keep yourself fed without sharing.”

“Don’t complain.” He says rather harshly. “I’m sharing with you.”

“I know, but I mean-“

“Look, if we tried to split that can of beans with the whole project, less than half of the people would get a single bean and the rest would have to scrape a morsel of sauce. It’s inconsequential that I keep this for myself because it couldn’t feed the whole group anyway. And the rabbit? I saw it outside my front door and I shot it. Didn’t go hunting for it. Didn’t waste anyone’s time with it. It’s mine. So I’m eating it. But, with you, I am happy to share.”

He’s right. He has no reason to worry.

Jacob finishes adding cuts of meat to the pan. He sprinkles salt over the mixture. “That should do it. I’m no artist, but food is food. Now. What’s the matter?”

I make my way back to the couch. “I found some letters in Joseph’s cabin.”

He follows me and sits. “From Megan?”

I pause. Somehow the thought of her is even more distressing than the thought I came through the door with. “No…” I say, hesitant to continue after hearing her name aloud for the first time in years. It was an unwritten rule that we never mention her. “From my best friend. You probably don’t remember, but she was the one who brought me to Joseph’s sermon… she’s the reason I’m here.”

Jacob pulls at the ends of his beard. “I see. I’m assuming that they were addressed to you?”

“All of them. One from as far back as three years ago. I think Joseph hid them from me.”

“Hid them? Why would he?”

“So I wouldn’t leave.”

Jacob chuckles. “You’ve grown wise in these few years.”

“Maybe I have.”

Ever to the point, he reverts back to the subject. “So... Why are you here?”

“It just… they made me think… they made me wonder… if I should have listened to your advice back then.”

He laughs cynically. “You probably should have.” 

“I guess I just don’t know what is left for me here. I’m starting to wonder what I truly gave up. Joseph has deserted me. Looking back on it I wish he wasn’t my reason for everything. Now… my heart hurts, Jake. I’m so lonely. I’m thinking about my friend. She was the closest thing I had to family. Around here… I feel like no one would notice if I disappeared.”

“I can think of one person who would.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

I wasn’t expecting that. 

“You are...” He looks at me. Words are stuck to his tongue and thoughts burn in his eyes. “You’re the most beautiful thing…” he pauses, not searching, but avoiding, “...in this whole mess. Everything has gone to shit, or it’s just starting to, but… I see your face and I don’t know why. I see hope. You make me believe that maybe this isn’t all just some game. You are the light.” 

I try to absorb his words. To grasp the meaning that his speech can’t come close to. “Joseph doesn’t make you believe?” I inquire.

“He has a way of making people fear Hell. I’m not afraid of Hell. In fact I think I’ve been there already. And part of me never left it… but you… you aren't like that. You're... I don't know. A slice of heaven. But I don't know what heaven looks like. If I had to guess though, I'm sure it is full of people like you. Not like me. Not like my brothers."

My hand is lifted, as if by some invisible force I can’t control, up to his cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever felt skin so rough, so dry, so uneven. His beard pricks my palm. 

“I’m no angel.” I find myself saying, not quite as comfort but as a beacon of truth. 

“No. But you’re the closest thing we’ve got.”

We humans like to think that we are in control of ourselves, of our circumstance, of our feelings. But there are moments where that control turns to water that drips through our fingers no matter how hard we cup our hands. Here and now, whatever free will I thought I had slips away. And I’m finding myself doing something I never thought of doing, never dreamed about, nor even considered. My lips are pressed on new ones, chapped and firm and foreign to me. He tastes like smoke.

He pulls away. “Now, I don’t think this is a good idea—“

“Why?”

“You’re a baby.”

“I am not.”

“You are next to me. I’m old. Older than Joseph.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It  _ does _ matter. You’ve got no business making love to a guy my age.”

“It’s only a kiss.” I say.

He diverts the conversation, trying to get as far away from it as possible. “Tell me about your friend. How can I help?”

Something clicks in about his lack of interest. “…you don’t want me either.”

He groans.“That’s not what I said.”

“I should’ve known better than to reach out.” I say, completely embarrassed. I start to stand.

He grabs me. “No, don’t go!” 

“Sorry for disrupting your evening.” 

He pulls me back down to the couch. “Listen… I… I just don’t get it. You could have gone to any man in this entire Project and you came to  _ my _ door? Why? Hmm? Why me?”

I don’t really know why. I can’t even explain it myself. His hand hasn’t moved from my arm. And I’m planted nearer to him than I would like to be, close in a way I’m not used to. A feeling washes over me. The warmth of his hand, of the fire, of the stove in the kitchen, the privacy… 

Am I safe here? Is that what this is? Is that what  _ he _ is? No, Rachel. You’ll get yourself all confused talking like that. You came here to ask for a favor from a friend. That’s all. “Because,” I explain, “Because of that day that you drove me up the mountain path and told me I could leave. Because you gave me a chance. I need you now. Help me see my friend. Please.”

He stands up in an instant, his brawn and build appearing like that of a giant from my angle. My first reaction is to flinch. 

“Fuck, kid!” He exhales sharply. “I forgot the damn food!”

He’s up in an instant and rushing over to the sizzling pan, quickly preparing two plates.

I miss his presence already. I start to reflect on the kiss I gave him, the kiss he returned willingly, even if he stopped himself. I don't know why I did it. I don't know why it felt nice.

“You’re an excellent kisser.” I say. I want to pull the words back into my mouth the moment they come out. 

I hear him search for spoons and take out two cans of beer from the fridge, but he says nothing. 

I decide to push my luck. “Far beyond what I expected. I can only imagine what else you’re good at…”

“You liar.” He says.

“What?”

I can hear his frustration. “You said you didn’t come here for that.”

I whip my head around over the couch. “I didn’t!”

“I ain’t stupid, sweetheart. What’s this? Some ploy to get me in trouble? Are you up to something with John?”

“What? No, no! I just… I just… I felt like it.”

He stops what he is doing and looks me dead in the eye. 

“You did?” He asks.

I nod.

“You really did?”

“Yes! I did! And I’m sorry for it. I shouldn’t have done it. It just happened…”

He comes back in with the plates and sets them down. He’s quiet. 

“Will you help me, Jake? Please?” I beg. 

“Look.” He says. “Look. I know you’re lonely, I get it. I know the feeling. How do you think I feel most nights, up here in the woods by myself with no one but that stupid dog? Pretty fucking lonely.”

I start to sympathize. “I understand completely. I shouldn’t have done that-”

“It happened.” He says upfront. “It happened and we can’t act like it didn’t. We kissed."

“What about my friend?” I defer.

“Of course I will help you. You should know by now. Anything you need… consider it done.”

Out of gratitude more than lust, I try to match my lips with his. He pulls away.

"Now, listen," He says, stopping me, "Don't do it. Don't try to return the favor. I won't take advantage of a girl half my age."

He's a man of honor, at least in this moment. I have no doubt that he's done plenty of unspeakable things in his lifetime. But right now, here, in this small way, he's a hero. 

"I kissed you willingly. Before you even agreed to help me."

"I know."

"And... I don't know why but... I'd like to kiss you again.

He looks at me, a quiet reserve in his eyes. "I'd like to kiss you too, Rachel.  But I’ll let you choose. Is it worth the risk? Do you want to do this and get stirred up into a whole new chapter of trouble?”

Hearing his voice speak my name makes me feel like a woman. He used to call me 'kid' all the time. And I know I still am. But I've grown up inside, by accident or by force. There is so much about myself I have come to resent over the years. My tired eyes and dry hair. My short temper and sensitive heart. My broken body and twisted brain. But hearing that battle-cry worn and tobacco dry voice say _Rachel_ softens the scars and the soreness and the suffering of it all. The answer is yes. 

“Maybe trouble is what I’m looking for.” I whisper. Maybe that is what I came here for all along. 

His eyes look like they’ve just caught sight of easy prey that will keep him full tonight. “If that’s the case… you’re in the right place.”


End file.
